


For a new Cybertron

by Megaytron



Category: Transformers (IDW 2019), Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Fake Marriage, Grumpy Old Men, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28502634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megaytron/pseuds/Megaytron
Summary: Megatron is old and tired, and if there's anything he doesn't have time for amidst the exhaustion of peace talks, it's the thoroughly baseless rumor that he will ever act as Optimus Prime's High Lord Protector.The fake marriage AU nobody asked for.
Relationships: Megatron & Soundwave, Megatron/Optimus Prime, Optimus Prime & Ratchet
Comments: 107
Kudos: 199





	1. Media

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the self harm tags.

To call Cybertron anything less than a broken world, would be an understatement. But to think of it as lost or forgotten, would be a grievous lie.

Megatron servos lightly ghosted over the mangled metal of what was once the entrance to a run-down, backwater bar. The twisted wreckage long settled into the rust of eons otherwise undisturbed; Presumably looted for all it was worth long ago.

He stood, alone and quiet, amid the dark remnants of a street worth no particular mention. The twinkling expanse of stars gazing down on him lighting the wreckage with a soft, effervescent glow - refracting off gnarled torn beams and lighting up patches of sharp silvers along the edges of his plating.

The overhanging, long-dead lights that once dimly lit a bustling city side-street creaked mournfully as a wind blew through the remains.

The light metallic press of Megatron's titanium alloy against Kaon's rough-hewn roads created a soft echoing that barely rose above the haunting quiet.

Distantly, Megatron noted the ping of his comm-link somewhere in the back of his processor; his internal programming obediently sorting anything with the tag MEDIA away from his conscious thoughts to analyze later, when he had the patience.  
He'd had that particular piece of coding installed since before the war.

Megatron uttered a quiet 'tch' of annoyance at receiving such a prompt directly, despite having set his frequency to Unavailable prior to his departure from Iacon and it's tension laiden peace-talks.  
However, If whomever had contacted him didn't think it was urgent enough to call, then they would wait until his business was surely concluded.

Megatron came to a stop at the precipice of a large drop - an unnatural gash, torn into the world eons ago. His own doing; A large blast used to separate one of Kaon's more prominent back entrances off from the Autobot's progression, back when it had been occupied as the Decepticon Capital.  
So long ago.

Megatron stared down into the wound. Layers of the planet's inner circuitry and mechanics exposed, almost intimately, for anyone to observe.

Almost absentmindedly, Megatron unsheathed his sword, the familiar sound of metal skimming against metal as it transformed outwards cutting through the air and echoing into the still and quiet darkness around him. 

He turned his left-arm, twisting it so the palm of his servo was open towards the soft light of the stars.

The press of the sword against his metal was unpleasant, but not unfamiliar. The initially light press turning into a sharp explosion of pain as, with the groan of bowing metal, he pierced into the delicate underside of his arm.

Dragging the tip of the blade inwards towards himself, he gritted his dentae through the pain, Energon lines splitting with a wet gurgle as the bright blue liquid pooled and spilled quickly along the wound. Rivulets of his lifeblood slid along the contours and turned from plinking splatters against the ground to a running, continuous stream.

An alert popped up on his HUD, but he dismissed it even as it flashed it's familliar warning.

The groaning of his metal came to a final stop with the flick of his sword resheathing beneath his canon - a chaotic mist of Energon splattering his chest-plates as he did so.

The gash ran deep - deeper than he probably should have allowed it to, but the pain was a calming, familiar ache. Something he could easily focus on...understand.

The sharp tip of his finger gingerly brushed the wound, lightly grazing along the length, sending a burst of fresh agony through his censors and causing the red of his optics to flare brilliantly in the darkness.

"For Cybertron," he whispered hoarsely and lifted his arm over the chasm before him. The Energon that had been pooling in the depths of his injury now fell freely, spilling into the depths of the ruins below.

Down, near the very bottom of the chasm, was one of Cybertron's central lines - one of the planet's living pieces, a telltale relic of a once proud and incredible creature, home, eons ago, to millions.  
And as his Energon fell and collected amongst the divets and cables, mingling with the dusted remnants of Cybertron's own drained life-blood, Megatron gazed down with an intensity he couldn't begin to assign an emotion to.

"For a new beginning."

\--

Forwarded communication from [SW].  
Tags: MEDIA, NEW CYBERTRON, THE GREAT WAR, PEACE TALKS   
Status: Urgent.  
Read at the next available opportunity.

Megatron opened the message while en-route to Iacon, the intakes of his jet form roaring as they forced air under the streamlined contours of his aerial form.

It was a press article, distributed across what little remained of the tattered network that once acted as Cybertron's uniting informational highway.

At the head of the article was an image of startlingly high quality, despite having seemingly being taken from a distance. A perfectly captured scene of Optimus Prime and himself standing at the entrance to the high council, deep in discussion. Optimus' face is thoughtful, his eyes serious and focused somewhere indeterminate - whilst Megatron's own face is turned away from the camera. His servos were clasped tightly behind his back and his plating flared aggresively.

Flanking them on either side was Ratchet and Soundwave, a look of pinched displeasure twisting Rachet's expression as he gazed disdainfully in Megatron's direction, while Soundwave's helm lingered expressionlessly towards that of the camera.

Megatron studied the image intently for one moment as he blasted overhead Cybertron's central highway. The skyline of Iacon soared into view, with the first functioning grid of Cybertron's reignited power supply setting it starkly apart from an otherwise blackened world.

Returning his attention to the article, Megatron scrolled down past the photo.

>   
>  Warlord Megatron; High Lord Protector?
> 
> Amidst the unprecedented arrival of peace talks arrives yet another shocking revelation.  
>  With the anticipated arrival of Optimus Prime to the newly rebuilt council-building yesterday, a nervous populous have already begun to speculate how the delegation of responsibility and rulership might be handled within Cybertron's unsteady future.  
>  However, with the continued appearances of Megatron alongside Optimus Prime, some have considered a return to traditions past may, in fact, hold a more obvious glimpse at things to come.
> 
> While the title of High Lord Protector hasn't seen use since Cybertron's Golden Age, it is hardly a forgotten honor.  
>  With peace talks moving swiftly forward and no clear reinstitution of the Functionalist Council yet in sight, Some have speculated that Optimus Prime and the warlord Megatron could be formally uniting through the ancient ceremony of appointing Megatron as Optimus' Prime's-  
> 

Megatron is old and tired, and if there's anything he doesn't have time for amidst the exhaustion of peace talks, it's the thoroughly baseless rumor that he will ever act as Optimus Prime's High Lord Protector.

Megatron transformed. The cold, rust filled air hitting him in a solid wave of force. He soared downwards, his peds bracing beneath him as the wind ripped past his metal and whistled a shrill cry in the otherwise silent night.

He hit a section of Cybertron's central super-highway with such force that the metal cracked and splintered, years of age rusting it away into an unstable state of disrepair.  
His knees almost buckled with the shock of it, a sharp shock of pain crackling like lightning up his leg and spinal strut, causing him to grunt in pain. He had transformed higher than he should have, fallen longer than was wise.

However, he was intimately familiar with how anger blurred out the pain.

"Soundwave," he growled over his commlink, his eyes glazing over as he intently studied the image on the article once more. "I received your message."

He studied, just for a moment, the glass panes of the Council Building - zooming intently in on the reflection of light and shadows to see if perhaps this bug of a paparazzi member had been caught in the image...but no, it seems that they had strayed just out of the area of reflection.

: Article was published last cycle - approximately 12 Joors ago. : Came Soundwave's simple reply.  
: Initially of little gravity. However, the article has rapidly gained attention in your absence. Course of action recommended? :

The ache of the wound on his arm, previously relegated to the back of his processor, burned incessantly as his knee creaked from the shock of his earlier impact.  
It was in moments like these that he could feel his age the most. The moments between fights, where the party tricks and simple pleasures of what had once been the day in a gladiatorial life caught up with him.

"Who published this senselessness?" He hissed, smoothing his servos absently over the poorly patched would of his forearm. The welding raw and the patch job rough, if functional.  
"I cannot fathom how any mech of the modern era could see the political tensions unfolding across the entirety of Cybertron, and proceed to stir the pot with tabloid gossip." His glossia curled over the last two words with an emphatic disdain.

: Designation: Rook. : Came the flat reply. Megatron could hear the whir of Soundwave's systems over the commlink as he inevitably back-traced a substantial backlog of information.  
: The article itself was published by 'Around Cybertron'. :

The name of the publisher sparked recognition, but Megatron couldn't quite place the name. His ministrations across the sensitive welding on his arms became more incessant, scratchier.

: Established Pre-war - still operating. : Soundwave continued.

Megatron huffed in surprise, even as fresh pricks of formed from the fresh scratches on his forearm.  
"...Persistent. I thought the news died with the Senate."

: Unaligned. : Came the reply.

"Never chose a side huh?" Megatron said coldly, finally dropping his servos away from the aching wound now freshly leaking Energon. "I hate neutrals the most."

There was a quiet silence over the comms, save for the soft pinging of rapid typing on holo keys.  
: Rook has a transport shipped docked in the Iacon trade port. Erase the issue? : Soundwave queried. 

"No," Megatron said, immediately. His gaze, finally sharpening back into clear focus, landed on the illuminated skyline of Iacon. "Not now - or shall I say, not yet. Not until the peace talks are done."

There was an electronic hum of approval. : Article? :

Megatron felt his tanks roll slightly, his internal HUD giving him a popup warning that he needed to recharge and refuel. There was a warning flashing somewhere in the corner of his vision that his knee strut and forearm needed medical attention.  
He dismissed the alerts.

Almost as if out of protest, the telltale curl of a headache began to lick at the circuitry around his optic, and he winced just slightly.  
"If it is removed," He continued, rubbing a dull circle into his temple as he began walking towards Iacon. "I fear the tittering populace will have nothing more to do than speculate. I have no need for baseless rumors trifling with the people's perceptions. Leave it be - it will pass."

: Understood. : Came the reply. : ETA? :

"A few clicks," Megatron replied, and with a grunt that could surely be heard over the comm-link, leapt into his transformation sequence - the roar of the engines filling the air as he shot forward.  
"Ensure there is Energon ready when I return. It appears I got caught up in my own nostalgia."

The line clicked closed, and Megatron lost himself in the blinding lights of Iacon.


	2. Nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron had been pushed to the brink of his life a hundred times over, yet he could never quite stand the feeling of purging.

The halls of New Iacon's High Council were quiet and sparse in the dark of the night, and while there was often peace in silence, the echoing of his steps underfoot left an eerie echo in Optimus Prime's audials.

Whilst the introduction of Cybermatter had done a great deal for the reconstruction efforts, very little had been done within the reconstructed buildings that made up the glittering display that was New Iacon. As such, Optimus couldn't quite shake the skeletal feeling of a building so empty as this one, despite its familiarity.

Megatron had already plainly expressed his distaste for the reintroduction of Iaconian architecture into Cybertron's new era. Although, Optimus was sure Megatron knew as well as he did that they'd been fighting this war for far, far too long to trifle over design.

"To see the house of the Senate in all of it's impractical, glass-covered grace..." Megatron had said dryly, the curl of a sneer creasing his scarred faceplates as he gazed upwards into the blinding refraction of the council-building, lit by Cybertron's mid-day sun. "How distasteful to Cybertron's memory."

Megatron had, had his hands clasped behind his back in a pose that reminded Optimus strikingly of the old days. His itching servos tucked away, ever fidgeting; always a little lost for purpose outside of the gladiators' pit. 

Once upon a time, Megatron had greedily busied those ever twittering servos within the hall of records - amongst Orion's ever-growing personal collection of data-pads.  
However, eons later, with the hall of records an empty building amongst Iacon's reconstruction, there was little to remember such things by besides old habits such as these.

"Perhaps." Optimus had begun carefully, a hum of thought rumbling deep within his chest, "However I do believe that, to many returning Cybertronians, such architecture as this holds a great deal of cultural significance...and while the replication of the Senate's corrupt house of power must be addressed," Optimus glanced away from the council building and towards Megatron, whose red optics bore straight into his own with a familiar intensity. "...I fear that the arrival of refugees to New Iacon allows us little time to discuss it's architecture."

Megatron had barked a harsh laugh at that, his plating flaring as his dentae bared into a cruel grin, his eyes flashing. "Always the people's Prime, Optimus."

Optimus came to a quiet stop just outside of the entrance to the council building common-area, the grand frame of the entranceway letting out a soft whoosh as the doorway slid open.

Inside, he watched as the soft hum of overhead lights flickered to life, illuminating very little besides a wide-open expanse and a wall of floor to ceiling glass, overlooking the twinkling lights of the newly rebuilt city. 

Nostalgia was something Optimus rarely felt, but save for moments such as these.  
Standing in the quiet air of a building so familiar, with the blue and white lights of an Iacon that never slept spilling in through the pristine glass...Orion Pax had lived this life so intimately before him. Known it so well.

He wondered for a moment what mundane and simple work might fill up the buildings he could see from this dream-like view. What simple work-days would take place as newsparks set up little desks with small and delightfully insignificant things? What conversations would be had around the Energon dispensaries as it filtered out cube after cube without lacking?

An ordinary, mundane day in an average, insignificant building.

Optimus, for the briefest of moments, felt very tired somewhere deep in his soul. Some part of his exhausted spark calling out to him to sleep, to rest, to eventually, and finally...stop. 

'The people's Prime,' came the familiar taunt from somewhere in his processor; and how ironic it was to be his voice denying such a notion.

But so it was true. To rest in the way Optimus' spark ached to was a brief and immoral fantasy when, after eons of endless struggle, the time had finally come for him to utilize the Matrix of leadership as it was so originally intended. 

Distantly, Optimus realised he'd been standing somewhat aimlessly in the entry, and the strained whir of electronic sensors continuing to register his presence in the open doorway finally caught up with his audials.

He stepped inside, the doors quickly closing behind him.

It was a bare room. Furniture wasn't high on the list of priorities his and Megatron's own teams were rapidly compiling - not while refugees spilled in and 90% of Cybertron's power-grids still remained inactive.

However, it seemed that someone had taken the time to drag a few scuffed up chairs all the way up from the docks and into the elevator. And so, arranged haphazardly in a corner, was a small, improvised sitting area. 

An overturned supply crate acted as an impromptu table between a collection of three dinged up chairs, while a few empty Energon cubes sat amongst a disorganised pile of playing cards, long-forgotten into the night.

A glint of reflected light caught Optimus' wandering optic, and he registered a glass bottle tucked up between the crate and one of the chairs. It was only about a fourth full, with a bright blueish-green Energon inside.

High grade, he realised distantly. Fairly cheap-looking High Grade, if he had to guess, the kind the troops used to smuggle into the barracks back when Cybertron still boasted something akin to a functioning army.

Optimus Prime himself was not a drinker, although the same could not be said of Orion Pax who had been a notoriously chatty drunk.

However, in the silence of the night, Optimus wondered over the thought of a single glass. It would be his last chance for some time, given how some of the more important peace talks began tomorrow.

Optimus walked towards the small sitting area, his servo reaching for his chest as the plating smoothly slid aside.  
He retrieved a datapad from the compact environment of his subspace and began to pull one of the larger chairs out from where it had been pressed up against the edge of the crate. The motion earned him the shrill sound of scraping metal, and he winced painfully as his audials twitched away from the harsh sound.

The chair was a bit small for him, as most things were these days, but he stepped around and lowered himself carefully into the seat with a soft exvent. The chair, though sturdy-looking enough, groaned under his weight, and Optimus sighed tiredly.

So little of Cybertron had ever been built for Warframes during the reign of the caste system - especially in Iacon. But considering the war, with so many mechs seeking armament modifications, it was hard to imagine any of the ancient styles of furniture working for many mechs any longer.

Though Optimus was a little larger than most, even amongst Warframes.

He recalled, with continued nostalgia, how Alpha Trion had towered above him once - back when they'd lived amongst the data of the archive. How he'd continuously had to enlist the aid of larger mechs to reach items from higher places, lift particularly heavy shipments.  
Megatronus, in particular, had aided him often. 

Optimus reached down and delicately picked the high-grade up from it's nested spot on the ground, and held it cautiously in one servo, examining the contents as they glowed softly under the fluorescents overhead.  
A recorded audio message left earlier in the day began playing out from the awakened datapad as Optimus hmmed softly and placed the High-grade down on the table.

"Well boss, it seems like everything's set up over here." Came Bumblebees voice, with it's familiar, comforting confidence.  
"The docks are functioning, thanks to the repairs, and we're setting the refugees up in the temporary camps for the time being. We're still waiting to hear back from Starscream on his 'bartering' with external sources for supplies, but Knockout reckons he knows a guy if that falls through."  
There was an unconvinced scoff-like laugh, followed by the soft muttering of 'yeah we'll see how that turns out' as he rustled through what was probably documentation.

"...Otherwise, Energon's holdin' out...for now. Arcee said she knows about an old Autobot mine from back in the war that got sealed up to keep the cons from getting at it. Me and her are gunna go check it out next Cycle."

The sound of distant speaking made Bumblebee pause, and Optimus could hear snippets of reassurances and fond laughter over the audio recording. 

"...Ahem, anyway, sorry- yeah that about covers it. We're doing everything we can as fast as we can so let us know how things are with you when you get the chance. I'm sure whatever you're discussing up in that big serious tower of yours is important, but the guys miss you. Primus, Smokescreen's DYING to see what you're up to over there."  
There was the sound of Bumblebee laughing, followed by him clearing his intakes.

"I- We're all worried about you, of course, what with the peace-talks and Megatron arriving to join them in person...but I'm sure you've got it handled. We're managing Starscream pretty well but he's as much of a handful as you'd expect..."

Another quiet laugh, less assured this time.

"Hey. Optimus...listen. If you ever need us, the team'll be there, okay? We're just...Well, we're literally just down the road so, I dunno, gimmie a call and I can be there in like 20 kliks."

Optimus' spark thrummed softly, the soft glow leaking out from the seams in his chest plating as he ghosted a servo over the outer edge of the datapad.

"But anyway! I've gotta go, so good luck and lots of love from the crew. I'll talk to you again soon - hopefully I can reach you next time! Bye!"

There was the soft beep of the message ending, and before Optimus could take a moment to sit in the lingering emotion of Bumblebee's words, the datapad began to immediately autoplay the following message from Ultra Magness. The loud and commanding voice filling the air where the comfort of family had once been.

Optimus felt, somewhere in his processor, a flicker of annoyance. A touch, perhaps, of the chatty librarian that had once piloted this body of his. 

However Ultra Magnus always meant well, and Optimus found himself heaving awkwardly out of his chair to seek out an environment better suited to parsing the data Ultra Magnus was outlining.

Fuel, he decided, opting against indulging in High Grade when work had so swiftly followed him into the evening. He would better process the data with fuel.

\--

Megatron landed, as he often did, on top of the building rather than at the entrance.

A very old habit, born from years as a Gladiator being whisked through backstage tunnels and servant's exits; A habit further ingrained throughout years of war in which a grand, frontward entrance would cost more than one could often afford.

But further still, he valued the privacy of it.

With a groan of metal in his knee strut, Megatron stumbled unsteadily - sinking into a kneeling position, his good arm snapping out to grip the nearby frame of the rooftop doorway. 

His tanks rolled violently with the sudden shift in gravity, and Megatron had to grit his dentae to keep his systems from purging. 

Megatron had been pushed to the brink of his life a hundred times over, yet he could never quite stand the feeling of purging.

The sensation that came with it, of his tank rolling what little substance remained in his tanks over until they were forced, achingly, painfully back up through his system to spill out onto the ground - it was a vulnerability he despised.

He dragged himself back up, servos very nearly denting the glossy new frame of the doorway as he did so. 

With an unsteady sway, Megatron pressed a tight fist against the pad beside the entrance and blinked through the glare of the interior lighting as the door whooshed open.

He lumbered inside the doorway, ducking as he did to allow his pauldrons to pass through unobstructed - though, despite his efforts they still caught against the edge and scraped by with a mechanical whine, much to the irritated aching of his temple.  
The world had always been far too small for him. Iacon with it's delicate and expensive structures, especially.

The elevator was directly ahead, and he entered with little hesitation. Selecting the floor to the commissary and refuelling station, Megatron leaned against the back wall with a heavy sigh.

Peace-talks began tomorrow.  
The real peace-talks - not the agreement to allow Starscream to cover off-world negotiations for resources and for Ratchet to direct the medical efforts regarding the swift influx of refugees, but the dirty, gritty politics. 

These were the parts that had caused this world to splinter apart once before, as the seams of an obsolete power structure were plucked apart for all of their society to see, only to watch as that which he was trying to dismantle was passed along to the next willing spark.

The matrix of leadership...Megatron uttered a disdainful 'tch' as he watched the light for his floor illuminate and a soft ping ring out from overhead.  
He heaved himself out of the elevator and into the dark, eerie corridors of the common-space level. His footsteps echoing unevenly as carried his weight off to one side.

What good was the matrix of leadership to a society that had already borne the burden of such so-called 'shared wisdom'. The Primes had existed for eons and little came of their society save for slave coding and a broken caste system.

To imagine sitting politely at a table in the height of Iacon's High Council, exchanging the baseless pleasantries of political etiquette whilst refugees huddled under foil blankets and waited for them to scrabble like dogs over the smallest details-  
His HUD interrupted him urgently that he was expending energy at a higher rate than he had fuel, and a popup followed that warned him of severe mineral depletion.

Ah. A topic, perhaps, for after he had refuelled.

Megatron came to a stop outside of the entryway to what had been affectionately dubbed as the 'shared common-space' by Ultra Magnus.

The doors flew open as he stepped forward, and he observed the expansive, almost entirely empty room.  
'Shared common-space.' A pretty name for another obscene overuse of space within the buildings of the upper-class.

He noted, dully, that the chairs a few of his troops had hauled into the building were still there; now accompanied by a mess of refuelling cubes and what looked like a bottle of questionable Energon. Probably cheap high-grade.

His tanks quivered at the sight of it.

He closed his left optic and pressed a servo to his forehead to ease the incessant ache and walked gruffly towards the door that led from the 'shared common-space' to the refuelling station.

The door slid open with its familiar whoosh just as Megatron's optics glazed over distractedly, dismissing yet another incessant collections of warning from his HUD.  
He would call for Knockout, privately, once he had refuelled. It wouldn't do the peace talks much good if his HUD continued to interrupt him with trifling concerns.

He blinked his optics back into focus, already beginning to reach towards his chest with the intent to activate his subspace and retrieve an empty cube. However, as his vision cleared, Megatron found himself stuttering to a sharp stop within a servos distance of a remarkably startled Optimus Prime. A cube of Energon was partway lifted to his mouth, exposed without the presence of his usual battle-mask. 

There was a heavy pause.

If he had encountered this...unique, situation, on almost any other cycle, Megatron might have indulged himself in a certain smug pleasure for drawing surprise out of the ever stoic Optimus Prime - but his body had other plans.

"Megatr-"

With one final warning flashing up on his HUD, Megatron pivoted away from Optimus and braced against a nearby wall as, with a sharp pain, his body spasmed and forcibly purged what little remained of his Energon - splattering out against the wall and floor.  
His vents shook with the effort of it, rattling in his frame as his engine choked on nothing. He spluttered as the contents of his tank mingled with his intakes and his internal fans stuttered into action in an attempt to clear his airways.

He could hear, muffled behind him somewhere, Prime's voice - and if there was one thing Megatron never required, it was Optimus Prime's unrequited concern.

Megatron tried to growl through the vile drips of Energon leaking from this throat and mouth, but he couldn't tell if he had actually managed to make the sound as his audials filled with a high, thin whine. His own engine, he realised distantly, as, without much further warning, his engines cut out completely as his HUD initiated an emergency restart.


	3. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron's intakes stuttered.
> 
> There, awkwardly propped up in a chair that was slightly too small for him, was Optimus Prime. His arms were folded, resting atop his knees as his helm lolled against the mass of his chest. Slowly rising and falling with each steady vent. The faint rumble of his engine vibrated through the air, causing a datapad tucked securely in his arms to rattle faintly against his plating.
> 
> He was asleep.

His optics felt heavy in the dark void that was a full system reboot. 

One by one, a series of diagnostics and system readouts began to flicker and crawl up over his internal vision as his processor slowly reawakened; A process that was aided by a strangely familiar warmth. A soft radiance that was gently enveloping his EM field, tugging him away from the realm of unconsciousness with a sensation much like laying in a patch of sun. 

He rumbled something akin to a groan, his servo reaching up and bumping haphazardly against his helm as he began to rub at the metal around his eye-ridges. However, his movements were halted as a smaller, lighter servo wrapped gently around his wrist.

The mechanisms in his helm spun loudly as he opened his optics, the high pitched whine of his audials slowly clearing as he registered the presence of speech in his vicinity.

"-hear me Megatronus?"

Bright blue optics gazed down at him, the warmth of his EM field washing over Megatronus like the waves of an oil bath; delicate silver faceplates twisting into a crinkled, ugly mess of worry.

Though ugly was hardly an appropriate descriptor for such an earnest mech as Orion Pax.

Some cocky part of Megatronus', Gladiatorial spark burned with pride at having earned such a passionate expression all for himself. To see a fragile mech of the Iacon upper-class clutch at him with those watering optics...well, it was like something out of one of the impolite novels the other pit-fighters liked to smuggle in on their off-hours.

But no. Such thoughts were not reserved for Orion Pax.

"I am alright, Orion." He managed, his vocalizer glitching over the words as he pushed his groaning metal upward on the berth.

"Don't you dare sit up!" Orion chastised quickly, his servo pressing warningly against Megatronus' chest plates.  
"I swear to Primus I'll force you back down if I must."

Megatronus glanced up into Orion's serious gaze and felt his expression crack into the smallest sliver of a smile. 

"Such authority," he said with a widening grin, before sliding back down against the berth, slipping away from Orion's touch.

He noted, dully, that they were in his chambers. A small, dingy space reserved only for the very best of the best; boasting such luxury as a single, slab-like berth and a small table on which to place one's meagre possessions.

Megatronus was not especially fond of having guests in this little hovel of his, but Orion was a polite exception. Often visiting to lend him various holopads on the latest aspect of Megatronus' research and to discuss politics, as they so often did.

But, much to Megatronus' bemusement, Orion would occasionally just visit to check on him.

Ever the bleeding spark.

"If I didn't arrive when I did who knows how long you'd have laid there!" Orion tone was scolding, but the ripple of fear in Orion's ever-expressive EM field betrayed the nature of his emotions.  
"...When I found you...I wasn't certain...." Orion trailed off, hesitant to finish the thought.

Orion had always been passionate. For as long as Megatronus had known him, Orion had never honed in his EM field. Instead, naively, he allowed his every feeling and motive to speak for him - wore it proudly like a beacon. Megatronus' own somewhat private and reserved demeanour was so starkly contrasted by the burning sun that was Orion's open spark.

"I'm a gladiator, Orion," Came Megatronus' simple reply - though not unkindly. "I am afraid that, on occasion, you may find me in a state of somewhat concerning disrepair."

"You haven't been fuelling, have you?"

Megatronus' field retracted instinctively, and his spark instantly twisted as Orion's expression fell and a tense quiet settled over them. 

Megatronus shifted on the berth, his field still tight against him, and reached out one servo apologetically. He placed it gently across Orion's, and his long, warframe talons easily dwarfed that of the delicate archivist.

"Friend...as much as it pains you and I both, my debts to the pit cannot be repaid without the occasional sacrifice. To exchange my rations for credit is one such occasional sacrifice...Such things are why we seek the change we do, without rest."

Orion's field bloomed out tentatively as Megatronus levelled him with a carefully measured gaze, and he watched as the worry knitting Orion's forehelm seemed to ease, Orion's field brushing up against him gingerly.

"Nevermind then," Orion said, waving his free servo suddenly as though he was trying to shoo away the discomfort from the air around them. He leaned forward and placed his free servo atop the berth. "I'll treat us both tonight."

Megatronus found himself cracking a smile, allowing a small, soft chuckle to ripple up through his chest. He couldn't quite resist, despite himself.  
"A date? How unexpected, Orion."

"If it will put fuel back in your tanks, so be it," Orion replied dryly, though his field betrayed a stuttered embarrassment that had Megatronus' grinning. "But I swear to Primus if I catch you skipping rations one more-"

Megatronus lifted his servo away from Orion's touch and pressed it gingerly against Orion's chest, the tips of his talons feeling fuzzy with charge as they brushed up against the soft thrumming of Orion's spark plating.

"For you, Orion? I will try," he promised softly.

\--

Megatron's dream slipped away from him as he came back online.

The lights overhead burned into Megatron's closed Optics; the muffled sound of beeping coming from somewhere nearby, fading in and out of existence as his audials recalibrated themselves. He felt leaden, his back strut throbbing sharply and the delicate mesh of his protoform aching in such a manner that suggested bruising.

He grimaced as he registered the taste of bile and Energon mingling on his bone-dry glossia.

His optics, distorted and whirring loudly with strain, slowly came back online - and Megatron stared upwards at an unknown ceiling as his focus blurred in and out.

"Oh good, you're awake."

Ratchet had never been especially happy to see Megatron, so the biting sarcasm was strangely comforting in its familiarity.

"Doctor," Megatron rasped, slowly pushing himself up with a groan of metal. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Ratchet's reply came in the form of a thick scoff near the front of what was quickly revealing itself to be the High Council's medical wing. 

Sitting up, Megatron groggily noted the presence of intubation tubes trailing outward from a patch in his throat and swallowed around the invasive presence.

There was a soft rumbling sound somewhere nearby to his right, accompanied by what felt like the brush of a wave of warmth. Though it was hard to define, there was something familiar, almost dreamlike about the way it felt.  
With a strain of his neck cables, he twisted to look.

Megatron's intakes stuttered.

There, awkwardly propped up in a chair that was slightly too small for him, was Optimus Prime. His arms were folded, resting atop his knees as his helm lolled against the mass of his chest. Slowly rising and falling with each steady vent. The faint rumble of his engine vibrated through the air, causing a datapad tucked securely in his arms to rattle faintly against his plating.

He was asleep.

And somehow, despite the absurdity of the situation, Megatron's addled processor managed to apprehend that the achingly familiar warmth was the gentle brush of Optimus' sleeping EM field - drifting freely around him while the ancient mech was offline.

It was...intimate.

"He's been working in here all night." Came Ratchet's curt voice beside him, interrupting an emotion Megatron was too exhausted to name.

Megatron felt the cold press of a wide, scuffed Servo press against his chest and shove him back down against the berth with a soft clunk. "It's a miracle you can even sit up, so don't push it."

Megatron grunted in displeasure, focussing on Ratchet's pinched expression as he looked over a small handheld scanner, a telltale cord trailing out of the device and somewhere into Megatron's left arm. 

"I don't know what you've been doing but I haven't seen a mineral deficiency like this since the height of the war." He ran the scanner along the length of Megatron's form.  
"Your body has been seeking out the missing minerals but, with the lack of fuel in your tanks, has seemingly taken to drawing them out from your inner mechanics - essentially," Ratchet dropped his servo down to his side and gazed at him seriously, "your body has been eating itself."

Megatron's optics flickered analytically over the old doctor - the familiar garish orange and white plating drudged up a long string of tags somewhere in the back of his processor. Medic, Autobot, enemy - and, somewhere much farther away, much longer ago, friend.  
Megatron felt the ache in his spark twist in irritation; he'd long grown tired of Ratchet's particular flavour of disapproval.

"And why," Megatron asked, his glossia twisting the words into a slow, measured drawl, "is this any of your concern, doctor."

"I can't believe it is," Ratchet muttered, turning to a nearby monitor and angrily tapping at the keys. "There I am, busy with the refugee camps and what do I get? A call in the middle of the night from Optimus, of all mechs, telling me you'd -" there was a 'pah' of a laugh, "fainted of all things. And then what do I find? That not only have you grossly neglected your physical wellbeing - something I would normally be perfectly GRATEFUL for..." 

Ratchet roughly unplugged a data drive from the console and plugged it into the handheld device.  
"But that you have also done so at the worst possible time."

Ratchet pressed something on the handheld device and it beeped responsively.  
He turned and levelled Megatron with an unkind stare.  
"Open your frequency. I'm sending you a fuelling regime - it's not ideal but given my current engagements I can't do more than set you up with an itinerary to perform on your own."

Megatron crooked an eyebrow ridge, a rumble of irritation echoing through his engines. "I have my own medical staff, Ratchet."

"Pah! Knockout? What does a cosmetic surgeon with a botched medical licence know of late-stage mineral deficiency?" Ratchet crossed his arms, tilting his helm back to regard Megatron. "And what do you know of listening to him, regardless?"

Megatron didn't recall Ratchet and Knockout ever even exchanging the pleasantries of idle conversation - so to hear him referred to so knowledgeably was surprising. And Megatron was not especially fond of being caught unaware.  
"I didn't realise you'd become so close," Megatron hissed through the curlings of a cruel smile. "I had always thought such personal interests were reserved for Optimus."

"You're stalling," Ratchet stated gruffly, and Megatron made a 'tch' of annoyance.

"You're no fun, old friend" he lamented and languished in the twitch of anger that rippled over Ratchet's plating. He clicked his frequency open and smiled fondly. "All yours, doctor."

Ratchet wasted no time and immediately Megatron felt his system's flood with information as a small novel worth of instructions and data poured into his processor - along with a string of neatly packaged code that his system quickly set to integrating.

He grimaced, running his glossia across his dentae as he gripped the berth beneath him. "Just a regime, huh?"

"I added some additional research papers on the issue," Ratchet stated. "Given the state of your condition one must assume that, without proper explanation, history will only repeat itself."

There was a dark flavour to what Ratchet said, and Megatron's plating bristled at the insinuation. His gaze, the red of his optics flaring, landed coldly on Ratchet - but Ratchet had already begun to busy himself once more - pocketing a series of datapads and tools away into his subspace with finality.

"I'm required back at my station, but I'll tell Knockout to come and remove your intubation tubes in a couple of joors - and to check in on you once per cycle to ensure you're following the instructions I've left."

"I don't require-"

"And yet, here we are." Ratchet finished tiredly. He pressed the button for the monitor console, powering it down before he bent to pick up his medical kit and began making his way towards the exit.  
"Rest while you can. The cycle's already begun and you have about four joors until someone starts talking about politics, so make it count."

Ratchet slowed to as stop, kit in hand, by the doorway to the medical bay. The medic glanced back over his shoulder at Optimus, whose sleeping rumbles pitched up as though he were about to wake, only to settle back down to a quiet constant.

The gentle brush of his EM field still burned against Megatron's processor.

"I will never understand why he does this for you, of all mechs."  
Ratchet turned just enough to level Megatron with a tired, and surprisingly earnest stare.  
"So for the love of Primus, Megatron, do not frag this up."


	4. Doctor's Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knockout gingerly pulled back the metallic lid, exposing a cloth covering.  
> Tucking a gleaming digit under the cloth, Knockout pulled back a corner to reveal the burnt amber colour of a small collection of Rust Sticks.
> 
> Knockout grinned up at Megatron, optics alight. "The first of Starscream's trade negotiations."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter is a bit shorter than the others! I have intentions for the next chapter to be rather long so I didn't want to cram them together into one writing project otherwise I knew my procrastination would get the best of me haha <3

"Lord Megatron, I genuinely don't understand why you didn't seek me out sooner."  
Knockout gingerly ran his servos across the sensitive mesh of the newly improved weld, the rough patch job carefully ripped up and remoulded with the notoriously-delicate servos afforded by a 'cosmetic surgeon' of Knockout's calibre. 

Megatron's made a noncommital noise, his gaze settled on the empty chair beside the medical berth, lost of its previous occupant by the time Megatron had awoken from recharge.

He hadn't truly meant to recharge - in fact quite far from it. The moment Ratchet had left the room, Megatron had commed soundwave - sitting up in his berth despite the protests of his aching form.

Soundwave had been well aware of his presence in the medical bay - a live feed from each room providing Soundwave with an ever serviceable amount of data to peruse as he stoically wandered the High Council halls.

Megatron wasn't sure when during his conversation with Soundwave his consciousness had slipped away, only realising he'd done so when he had awoken; and how that brought a bitter taste to the glossia. The great Warlord Megatron drifting into recharge on an opened comm like some Newspark from eons past.

Megatron tore his gaze away from the lone chair and turned his helm towards Knockout, who was now attempting to use a heat-tool to smooth over a particularly rough patch in the weld.

"My mind is often occupied with more important concerns than the occasional scuff," he finally stated.

Knockout levelled him with a disapproving expression - one of the few Decepticons in his ranks that ever really did.

Medics, Megatron noted with bemusement.

"With all due respect Lord Megatron, this hardly constitutes a surface issue. The quite literal depth of your injury has left several of your major lines torn - roughly, if I may add." 

Knockout pulled the heating tool away from Megatron's arm, surveying the new metal.  
Knockout slowly crossed his arms, the heating tool delicately balanced between a few of the fingers of his right servo, bouncing as Knockout pondered the weld.  
"If I may ask, Lord Megatron, how did you come upon such an injury."

"Nothing for you to trifle with, doctor," Megatron said, with an air of dismissal. "The jagged metals of Kaon merely caught me...unaware last night. An unfortunate oversight."

Knockout made a contemplative sound. "Ah yes, paying your respects. I would've offered to accompany you my liege if not for the," he gestured intently down at his form, glossier than Megatron had ever had the displeasure of seeing it, "refreshed pain job."

"Of course," Megatron stated sardonically.

Knockout placed the heating tool down onto a tray without much concern for Megatron's sinister gaze. "In any case, your arm is fixed up - though I'm sure you're not surprised to hear that you're going to feel it for a while. The painkillers I've given you should tide things over for a few joors but I'll have to scrounge some more up from the back to fulfil the quota over the next couple of cycles."

Megatron made a low noise of acknowledgement, flexing the cabling of his arm and servo with a few tentative stretches - the metal felt tight and uncomfortable.

"Now," Knockout said, picking up a syringe and flicking the tip of the needle with a sharp 'ting' noise, "I'm going to inject some nanites into your right leg - your absorption coils are nearing the end of their life-span so I'm going to give them a little boost before scheduling you in for a replacement." 

Ah yes. His leg.

"The knee strut has been troubling me as of late," Megatron remarked distantly as he rolled his the ball joint in his wrist.

"The knee strut? Huh," Knockout tapped a pointed digit thoughtfully against his porcelain cheek, the syringe held aloft to one side. "That's strange. Perhaps your absorption coils are further gone than I initially thought...I'll take a look now, while you're here."

Knockout inserted the syringe in a seam between the sections of armoured plating on Megatron's leg and Megatron hissed against a rush of static as the nanites began pouring into his systems.

"No," Megatron said, vocaliser taught at the invasive sensation, "I'm required in the council chamber."

Knockout extracted the needle with a frown. "Well yes, but Lord Megatron if a joint as crucial as the knee strut is acting amiss-"

"Enough," Megatron stated, and Knockout stepped back with a plaintive raise of his servos, a sigh discharging from his vocals.

"As you wish my liege. Though please do be careful - if your leg were to give out it may take me a rather considerable amount of time to source a...worthy replacement."

An old model. Megatron didn't need to read Knockout's tightly managed EM field to know the implication.

Megatron wanted to scoff.

Knockout could search high and low for parts to fit Megatron's enormous frame, but he would only ever find crude imitations of the eons-old forging.

Megatron's infamous silvery plating had been made exclusively for him, for the pits. A cold-forge set produced by Kaon's famous armour-mechs, built to caress his frame like non-other.  
How absurd it was, to gaze at the monstrous build of a warframe mech such as Megatron and assume that any such plating had ever entertained the pitiful disrespect of mass production within the polite society of a Cybertron's golden age.

The crackling charge of a thick wall of contempt washed up against Knockout as Megatron observed him darkly, and the medic immediately picked up the tray of tools.

"Ah but you do know best," Knockout placated with the slightest rise in pitch. He spun on his heel, the clattering of loose tools against the metal tray echoing loudly in the empty room. "You have a meeting, of course. I can hardly keep you waiting - your knee will hold until your next checkup." 

"Your expertise is always appreciated, doctor," Megatron remarked coldly.

Knockout placed the tray atop a bench of other various medical supplies as Megatron swung his legs over the side of the berth - his protoform aching with every motion.

Megatron's peds settled on the cold white floor of the medical bay - it's pristine shine yet to be scuffed or marred by the presence of injured mechs, so fresh from the healing rebuild of the Cybermatter.

It was strangely foreign, to see a medical room in such a state as this. Empty aside from one mech; quiet aside from the whir of well-tuned equipment. 

How abnormal.

Megatron heaved himself up and off the berth, his leg burning with the strain even as the nanites continued to work diligently within his systems.

"Now," came Knockout's hesitant voice from somewhere behind him as Megatron tested his weight. "The regime Ratchet sent me for refuelling is a tad strict, if ruthlessly efficient..."

Megatron heard Knockout mutter the words 'much like Ratchet' under his breath.

The sounds of Knockout's peds were light and precise as they came back around the side of Megatron's helm and into view.

Megatron turned his helm to observe him just as Knockout slowly held out an absurdly full cube of Energon, carefully balanced in the tipped digits of one servo.  
His optics were trained on the dangerous sway of the liquid as he cautiously raised it towards his master.  
"Mind the taste - it's a rather potent mix of minerals."

Megatron paused just long enough to take in the mingling fluorescent colours swirling together in the mixture, before gingerly picking the cube out of Knockout's grasp. 

"The flavour will likely be a bit-"

Megatron knocked back the cube in a single shot, the burn of tangy Energon lingering on the back of his glossia.

"...bitter." Knockout finished. 

Megatron lowered the cube with a rough swallow, his optics casually skimming Knockouts faltering expression.

A light brush of heat caught the edge of Megatron's EM field, just barely, but Knockout cleared his intakes and looked away before Megatron had much opportunity to analyse it.  
There was the audible transformation of Knockout's chest plates as he activated his subspace, and produced a small coffin-shaped box.

"Well, that takes care of that!" He said, his usual carefree air returning in full. "Your system won't be functioning at optimal speeds for a few cycles while we're reintroducing nutrients into your system...so in the meantime..."

Knockout gingerly pulled back the metallic lid, exposing a cloth covering.  
Tucking a gleaming digit under the cloth, Knockout pulled back a corner to reveal the burnt amber colour of a small collection of Rust Sticks.

Knockout grinned up at Megatron, optics alight. "The first of Starscream's trade negotiations."

Megatron paused, a pondering rumble to his engines. "Rust sticks are hardly an imported item," was all Megatron said as he observed the treat, making no move to take one.

"Just trade, my liege, not foreign trade." Knockout purred the words with a gleam in his optic, a single servo reaching into the box to pluck a stick delicately from its cream coloured wrappings. "The off-world colonies still produce them, Primus bless."

An incoming call from Soundwave took Megatron's attention away from Knockout's lazily rotating servo and he stepped away, pressing a talon to his audial.  
"Yes, Soundwave?"

Megatron listened carefully to the quiet, even tone of Soundwave's voice - purposefully ignoring the way Knockout sighed with boredom as he held the rust stick aloft to examine it in the light.

: You're needed in the Council Chamber, Lord Megatron. Should I inform the council to expect a delay? :

"No, Soundwave. Inform the council I'm on my way."

Megatron clicked closed the comm with a soft click and gathered himself - a crackle of something uneasy lancing across his plating even as his intakes heaved a deep, steadying vent.

He turned towards the door to the medical room and Knockout hurriedly began to stuff the rust stick back into its decorative little housing, tucking the lid back into place.  
Knockout held it out to Megatron expectantly, waiting for him to take it.

"Apologies, Lord Megatron but I must insist. It's-"

Megatron exvented a heavy, growling sigh, before curling his servo around the box. "Doctor's orders."


	5. Old Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This close, Optimus could see it. The telltale scratch marks littering the shiny, silvery weld. Small tears and rips in the metal carved in place by the sharp, claw-like tips of Megatron's digits.
> 
> And suddenly he was bitterly unsurprised.
> 
> "And perhaps I am sometimes intrigued by how little you've changed," Optimus commented, his tone clipped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the self harm tags.

Megatron braced his servos against the edge of the table, the flared red of his optics burning a hole into the cowering holographic before him.

"To imagine the reconstruction of Vos, prior to the continued reconstruction of Iacon...is an audacious misuse of resources, Starscream."

The holographic image of Starscream, projected from the center of a grand council room table, squawked indignantly; the growl of Megatron's engine rising as the Seeker stammered beneath his gaze.

Optimus could feel the sigh building in his intakes - the negative effects of a poor night's rest manifesting. The soft internal chime of an alert sounded on his HUD delicately reminded him of his body's need to recharge properly.

Optimus shifted uncomfortably. His back struts were sore and stiff from his brief lapse into poor posture last night - having unintentionally fallen asleep in the middle of cataloguing a program of shipments whilst listening to Ratchet rattle off an endless list of issues in Megatron's hardware.

He glanced in Megatron's direction.

The warlord stood, tall and imposing, at one head of the table with Optimus himself seated on the opposite end. Megatron's plating was dull and scuffed with wear - but he sported a fresh, shiny weld overtop had been a mangled field-patch.

Optimus was not a proud mech in the least, so he could not say that he wasn't often caught off guard - there had been many occasions where he had been surprised, whether in war or in his private life. Often Optimus was much like Orion in this way, earnest to the very end and often prone to misunderstanding the intentions of those around him. It was a flaw that grounded him, kept him connected to the people within the bigger picture.

Which is perhaps why Megatron had caught him so wholly unaware last night.

It was also, perhaps, why he stayed long enough to accidentally fall into recharge in what had been decidedly too-small of a chair.

These chairs were, at least, large enough to fit his frame type.

The council room in which he sat was a large one - grand and pristine, with white marbled floors and an enormous sweep of windows along the length of one major wall.

The view of daytime Iacon - or New Iacon, as Optimus had to keep reminding himself - glittered brightly behind a sternly poised Ultra Magnus, silhouetted broad and imposing against the window.  
He stood with his servos tucked behind him, the noble blues and reds of his plating catching the light with a majestic flair that contrasted the ice of his gaze, trained untrustingly on Soundwave.

Soundwave had stayed almost entirely still throughout that entire morning's discussion period; standing silently and ominously in the corner of the council chamber, observing its proceedings and filing them away for an unknown number of presumable reasons.

Very occasionally, Soundwave would cut into the conversation with the playback of an earlier statement or an outsourced audio file - often to punctuate his Master's points, but just once to offer a suggestion.

A suggestion to contact the liaison of foreign trade negotiations on the subject of resource distribution, in order to further refine their current construction schedule.

Optimus looked in Soundwave's direction, his visor pointed directly at the flailing seeker.

He wondered if perhaps Soundwave had simply been so inclined as to see Starscream torn apart before an audience.

"Might I remind you that Vos is a cultural capital with an independent government," Starscream said tersely. 

"Vos has been destroyed for eons -" Megatron replied sharply, "do you expect me to imagine YOU shall humbly step up to the responsibility of that empty throne, Starscream? Because please, enlighten me as to Vosians you expect to rule."

Starscream stuttered backwards, his wings dropping suddenly.

"Megatron, enough." Optimus cut in firmly. 

While Megatron made no effort to acknowledge him, Optimus saw the silvery talons of Megatron's servos tighten on the edge of the table.

"Starscream," Ultra Magnus said, his servos pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge with irritation. "Please finish your original report."

The projection of the Seeker glitched as he cleared his intakes - his wings flickering nervously.  
"Ah, yes, well..." Starscream wrung his servos tensely, glancing between Magnus and Megatron. "If it might be permitted...?"

Megatron's optics narrowed on the projection, his engine rumbling with such intensity that Optimus could feel the light tremors through the table..

"Oh, of course, Starscream," Megatron began, pushing himself away from the table and taking a few languid steps backwards, spreading his arms as his optics zeroed in on the holographic.  
"Do tell, how is your exclusive mission for off-world resources coming, commander? I find myself curious as to the volume of these resources, so confident you are that they could benefit such a large section of Cybertron as Vos."

Something in Starscream shifted gears, a switch as old as time and as unfortunately familiar to Optimus as Megatron's own rapid changes in mood.

The seeker drew himself up with a confident grace, his wings bouncing proudly on his back as he swiveled to address Ultra Magnus by the windows and Optimus at the head of the table.

"As I was saying earlier, while I may not currently have my servos on any...tangible materials - I did recently make contact with a well-connected trader. Someone who could put us in touch with enough resources to, perhaps, restore even that of Vos" Starscream cast a wary glance over his shoulder "- should it be...appropriate, of course."

Megatron observed him darkly.

"Thank you Starscream," Ultra Magnus said curtly, his faceplates conveying no particular gratitude. "I trust the joint budget Soundwave established early on will be permittable. when will the resources be available to us? "

Starscream hesitated over the words, his wings dipping slightly. "Ehm...well you see this - ah - particular trader has a lot of orders to fill...the timeline is not fully mapped out-"

: The refugees are overloading the camps faster than we can construct them. : Came the electronic voice clip from Soundwave's corner - dutifully playing back a recording from Ratchet to the main comm center of the building a few cycles back.

"You dare report back with empty servos only to put us on a waiting list?!' Megatron demanded, his plating flaring as he slammed a servo down on the table, all previous airs of patience evaporating.

"There's very little I can do, Lord Megatron!" Starscream skittered around to face Megatron, his wings now pinned to his back. "He's a neutral party, you must understand - my status has very little import to a mech like him!"

"What status?" Megatron threatened with a hiss.

"Starscream," Optimus began, his tone firm as he looked at the tittering projection, "Who exactly is your contact? You refer to him as a mech with some influence."

Starscream turned around to face Optimus, the Seeker's nervous optics catching his own with some hesitance. "Ah, well, Prime..." Starscream's faceplates twitched slightly as he croaked out a small, nervous chuckle; his earlier nervousness slipping away into thinly veiled bemusement.  
"Well, I don't think a Prime as yourself would have had much interaction with the likes of a mech of his...reputation."

"Perhaps not," Optimus stated. "But offer me the benefit of the doubt."

A pause fell between them as Starscream gazed sceptically at Optimus, before the Seeker drew himself back up to his full height - a cautious return to confidence. He cleared his intakes.

"He goes by Swindle," Starscream said aloofly, raising one servo to examine the talons. "He used to be a Decepticon back in the early days, but left when the credits dried up - or that's what they say. He's quite the kingpin these days, a dealer of rather exotic weapons - some I'm sure even you are acquainted with and some I'm not even sure I am~!" 

Optimus could hear Ultra Magnus exvent in irritation but kept his optics trained attentively on the Seeker before him.

"He has a servo in every cube of Energon though, not just weapons," Starscream continued. "He trades in Engex, mods, ships, armour-"

"A worthy trade partner who may, himself, express interest in the rebuild of Cybertron." Ultra Magnus interrupted impatiently, addressing his words matter-of-factly in Optimus' direction.  
"Though his neutrality disquiets me, it may be worth bringing him on board."

Starscream scoffed indignantly, his projection glitching. "If he isn't answering my calls who says he'll answer to you?"

"Starscream," Megatron bit out, immediately, and Starscream flinched.  
"If he isn't answering your calls, then how is it exactly you have a trade deal, to begin with?"

"Ah! Well, you see, I have managed to locate his current stay of port!" Starscream answered, turning quickly. "While he is a busy mech, he has never been known to turn out a lucrative deal! As our resident trade negotiator I am confident, lord Megatron, that I can have an appropriate deal arranged as early as two, maybe three cycles from now."

"Your overestimation of your abilities may cost your dignity, Starscream, but I will be a greyed husk before it costs us Cybertron," Megatron hissed, static lacing his vocals.

"Take your leave, Starscream," Optimus said, pushing his chair back and standing as Starscream twisted over his shoulder to look at him. He gazed back at Starscream, resting his servos gingerly on the top of the table- the familiar rumble of Megatron's engine still echoing through the pads of his digits.  
"Send the appropriate information on Swindle's current location to Soundwave. We will review the information from here, and return to you when the matter has been discussed in full."

"Ah," Starscream replied cautiously, "Of course! Please, do not allow me to hold things up." He wrung his servos together with a high, nervous laugh.

Starscream glanced down at something Optimus couldn't see, an unidentifiable expression twisting his faceplates as his servos interacted with something outside of the holo-projection.

"Hurry back, commander," Megatron said, far too casually for the flash of fear that crossed Starscream's faceplates as the image flickered out.

As the image of Starscream's disappeared, Optimus shifted his attention to Megatron - catching his darkened optics across the distance of the table.

The intensity in Megatron's gaze didn't fade, but it did change. The barely withheld irritation that colored his relationship with Starscream slipping away to be replaced with a different, deeper emotion. Like looking into the ancient, blazing heat of the sun.

"Megatron," Ultra Magnus said sternly, and Megatron's optics stayed locked with Optimus for just one moment longer before flicking away to meet Ultra Magnus'. 

Ultra Magnus crossed his arms, his expression one of disapproval. "It is counterintuitive to the proceedings of the days' activities to argue with your second in command over trivial matters."

There was a brief pause before Megatron, optics trained on Ultra Magnus, let out a gravelly chuckle.  
"Oh?" Megatron asked, drawing himself up to his full height as he levelled Ultra Magnus with a considering expression. He began stepping towards Magnus and Magnus stiffened, his optics flickering over Megatron's frame.  
"Strange - and here I was thinking the purpose of initiating these so-called peace talks was to put the welfare of Cybertron first."  
Megatron stopped chest to chest with Ultra Magnus, his helm held high as he looked down into the defiant gaze of the shorter mech. 

Megatron's plating was flared and his fists were tightly curled, but somewhere along the length of Megatron's left arm something blue caught the light and, consequently, Optimus' Optic.

Optimus turned his attention to Megatron's arm and looked intently at the blue trail running along the length of the silver plating. Studying it with a puzzled crease in his faceplates.

Energon.

A fresh rivulet of Energon was trickling lazily down Megatron's left arm, running along the curves and seams of his plating.

His weld had torn.

"Shame on me," Megatron hissed, tone spitting acid, "for not realising that it was irrelevant for me to address the arrogant notion of dedicating our measly resources to a long-dead kingdom presently irrelevant to the rehabilitation of the wounded populous."

"Megatron."

Megatron's optics snapped furiously in Optimus direction.

Optimus carefully held the other mech's gaze, the fury radiating off Megatron's plating holding an almost palpable charge.  
Deliberately, Optimus slowly turned his attention away and towards Ultra Magnus, his movements controlled in a way that one might do when attempting not to spook an animal.

"Ultra Magnus," Optimus said, not unkindly. "While I understand the need to manage our time efficiently, it must also be noted that every mech's voice is worth hearing during this time of great change. Even that of Starscream's."

"Optimus please-" Ultra Magnus began with indignance.

"Yes Optimus," Megatron cut in, a dark curiosity in his sinister expression.  
"Please enlighten the council chamber on the benefit of Starscream's voice on the topic of our derelict resources."  
Megatron moved away from Ultra Magnus and stepped with an alarming swiftness up to Optimus' chair, his helm tilted in a mocking curiosity as he gazed thoughtfully down at the Prime. He tucked his servos behind his back  
"I must confess I'm curious how the almighty wisdom of the primes can condone a separate rulership from their own."

Somethin dark and unpleasant flickered in Optimus' chest. A feeling like being ill - a sickly, grey sensation that gripped the very centre of his spark and dulled it.  
The matrix. It rebelled and recoiled such a notion - despised it like a bitter taste.

Optimus wanted to sigh at Megatron, to level him with a disapproving look like Orion might have, so many years ago. The tiredness of a poor night's rest drudging up old habits, trifling with his patience.

But no, that wouldn't do. It never did.

Optimus vented deeply, allowing his optics to meet Megatron's with a collected sense of calm and assurance.

"In the same way that I have no interest in using the matrix to govern Cybertron, I do not see it fit to reinstitute any of the old forms of rulership. However, my perspective is borne of my experiences. It is not hard to imagine that any child of Vos would wish to see such a cultural capital returned to it's once decorated status, and so such things as the Vosian throne must be discussed."  
Optimus' tone became grave as he continued. "To consider my own opinion and experience above any other would simply be to return to the old ways, all over again."

Megatron regarded him with a fierceness that always coloured their interactions - the barest brush of a powerful EM field barraging Optimus' receptors with an intensity that bled from every seam in Megatron's enormous frame.

"Beautifully worded," Megatron said, the compliment cutting like a blade as he moved in just a little closer. "I'm always fascinated by how carefully you've learned to walk the middle of the road."

The metals of their chests touched.

Megatron was rarely in a position, politically, to be this close to Optimus.  
He was close enough, in fact, that Optimus suddenly registered the warm wash of Megatron's air vents, fitted into the contours of his waist. 

Megatronus, as Optimus recalled, had always run just a tad too hot. His fiery personality and intense passion often manifested into physically overheating. He'd had the wide fans in his waist installed to counteract it, eons past.

He hadn't realized he'd never changed it till now.

Optimus realized his Optics had drifted, lingering on the vents in Megatron's waist. Before he could stop himself his gaze flickered over to take in the rivulets of Energon trailing down Megatron's arm.  
This close, Optimus could see it. The telltale scratch marks littering the shiny, silvery weld. Small tears and rips in the metal carved in place by the sharp, claw-like tips of Megatron's digits.

And suddenly he was bitterly unsurprised.

"And perhaps I am sometimes intrigued by how little you've changed," Optimus commented, his tone clipped.

His optics lifted back up, meeting Megatron's gaze to discover an expression that Optimus could only describe as shock, the fans cutting off with a stutter.

"Ah but," Optimus said, glancing away towards Soundwave who's visor was trained intently on him. "Perhaps a recess is in order."

"Yes," Came Ultra Magnus' curt but agreeing tone, and Optimus could see that the tension in his frame was still readily apparent from overtop Megatron's shoulder. "A quick refuel to keep our processors alert. The itinerary allows us..."

There was a pause in which Optimus caught Megatron's gaze - his optics now ice-cold and his expression completely unreadable; his EM field completely gone from Optimus' perception.

"Five kilks." Ultra Magnus finished.

: Doctor's orders : Came a clipped recording of Megatron's voice from the corner.

"What does that mean?" Ultra Magnus asked Soundwave sternly, but Megatron finally tore his gaze away from Optimus. He turned towards the exit to the council chamber, his pauldrons shunting Optimus out of his space with a scrape of metal. 

"It is of no concern to you, officer," Megatron replied gruffly, walking towards the doorway. "Soundwave, have Knockout briefed for my arrival."

Soundwave's visor flashed as he processed the request - and Megatron swiftly vanished as the doorway slid closed behind him.

Optimus HUD politely told him his energy was at 55%.

Ultra Magnus cleared his intakes, his expression tight and his plating tense, before catching Optimus' optic and nudging his helm towards the door expectantly. 

"Come, Optimus, let us refuel together."

\--

Megatron knocked back the nutrient mix with no more fanfare than last time.

Knockout's words were muffled in Megatron's audials, his attention scattered to the winds as he licked his glossia over his dentae.

"And perhaps I am sometimes intrigued by how little you've changed," Optimus had said.

His glossia felt heavy in his mouth, the bitterness of the Energon a reflection of his twisting spark. Something hazy and ancient writhed in the centre of his chest, a feeling from eons past - something too raw for Megatron to hold.

_"...When I found you...I wasn't certain...."_

_"I'm a gladiator, Orion. I am afraid that, on occasion, you may find me in a state of somewhat concerning disrepair."_

Orion had been naive, but Optimus was a bleeding fool.

A sting in his left arm snapped his attention back into focus, and Knockout's words started fading back into clarity as he pushed the needle into the seams of his arm.

"-ear to Primus I don't think you've heard a word I've said!"  
Knockout looked up at him with a disapproving glare, his cherry-red backlights punctuating the intensity of the black circles of his optics.  
"Though not that what I have to say would matter for very long, apparently."

"Spare me your wrath, Knockout," Megatron drawled tiredly. 

"You haven't even left the building!" Knockout exclaimed, withdrawing the needle only to throw his arms wide. Knockout made an exasperated noise and began to move away from the berth Megatron was sitting on, casting the syringe away into a nearby refuse receptacle and running a servo tiredly across the ridges of his helm.

"At the very least your internal levels are already showing rapid signs of improvement, so your body is responding well to the nutrients - though you could stand to be refuelling double your current intake...I'll have to take another look at that old crone's schedule."

Knockout took a few steps and picked up a rag folded over the edge of the chair beside the berth - wiping his servos clean with a frustrated vigour.

Megatron could hear the annoyed exvent and looked away, disinterested. His optics trailed down to his arm, studying the grooves and nicks of the cuts his clawed servos had dug into the weld throughout the meeting.

Stress often had this effect on him, but it was a rare moment when his habit broke the surface of the metal - these peace talks had him on edge.

Perhaps he ought to file down his talons again.

"Oh by the way," Knockout said, and Megatron raised his gaze back up towards the medic. Knockout flipped the cloth casually over his shoulder as he accessed his subspace. "You left this behind this morning."

From within the medic's glossy red subspace, Knockout pulled out a data-pad and extended it to him.

Megatron's optics glanced across the humble-looking pad - an older model with plain colours that were faded with age. It was in extremely good condition, the faded metal sporting a crisp shine even overtop old scuffs and marks. The glass was arguably brand new - well polished with a clear view of the backlight in it's powered down mode.

Megatron did not trust data pads - he'd had all of the necessary bells and whistles hardwired into his processor early on into the war. It was a rare day that Megatron had to bother with something so trivial as a console or pad.

Megatron levelled Knockout with an indifferent expression. He began, dryly, "Thank you doctor, but I'm afraid this of very little interest to-"

The words caught in his vocalizer. His optics trailed back down to the data-pad - over the carefully cleaned surface, the uncracked glass, the ancient model.

He straightened.

"Thank you, doctor." He corrected, his tone even, and took the pad out of Knockout's servos. 

"Lord Megatron...?" Knockout asked interestedly, his earlier disapproval giving way to curiosity.

Megatron continued to gaze down at the data-pad for a moment more, before pushing himself up to his full standing height.  
Knockout took a few steps back to keep Megatron's faceplate in view, the enormous barrel of Megatron's chest rising with a deep vent.

Megatron's optics caught Knockout's puzzled gaze. "Good day, doctor."

"Ah! Lord Megatron-" Knockout began as Megatron turned away and lumbered towards the door. "Your arm! I haven't had the chance to-"

"I will return later this evening - the Energon will clot in the meantime. Ensure you are prepared to receive me, I will require a particularly strong weld."

Knockout's footfalls came to a halting stop behind him, and Megatron pushed the activator beside the exit- the door sliding easily aside. He stepped through.

"Lord Megatron I must insist. Doctor's-"

The doors closed swiftly shut behind him.


	6. The docks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a pause in which Megatron could only imagine that Ratchet was considering him and his words, Megatron’s own gaze set firmly on the floating might of the Nemesis. 
> 
> The sound of Ratchet's fans cut through the silence, cycling out the black smog of Megatron's smoke.
> 
> "You're the one up in that obnoxious tower with him," Ratchet sighed bitterly, the weariness in his vocals bleeding through.  
> "...Are you truly so stubborn as to go through me to avoid him, Megatron?"

The docks were quiet in the dead of the night.

The tents, shoddily constructed of a thin synthetic fabric, rustled and whistled as the cold winds blew between the gaps; skirting over rises and battering against the metallic surfaces of countless gloomy ships idling in the docks. 

The actual structure of the docks was made up of a metallic ring around the edge of a large bowl-like drop. Under the floating ships that hovered gently overtop, existed an enormous abyss of metal - a drop that spanned the size of a settlement. It was a natural chasm - deep enough to expose the outer edges of power lines flowing through the planet down towards the core.

At the very bottom, lit up with soft bioluminescent blues, thrummed the mechanism of a truly monstrous fan-like mechanism. It spun with a soft vibrato, an artificially generated gravity allowing the docked space crafts to bob gently in the air, tethered closely to the edge with powerful braided nylon cords.

Standing at the precipice of the drop, Megatron's optics stared across the gap, his gaze settled on the powerful black Nemesis - it's titanic stature eclipsing the other vessels. 

The Nemesis was partially lit up. Most of the bio-lights on the outside remained powered down, but a soft glow of cool-toned light emanated from a small subsection of the craft's upper windows.

After the initial signing of the peace treaty the Nemesis quickly became the unofficial base of operations for both sides - a reluctant but necessary venture, given the Nemesis technological systems as well as it’s close proximity to Ratchet’s refugee camps.

A great portion of the ships tethered in said docks were also lit up, with many of the refugees that couldn't be accommodated in Ratchet's camps stuffed and cramped back into the vessels they'd arrived on.

Weary laughter drifted across the air of the docks, punctuated by the clink of Energon cubes and tired vocalizers; all echoing off the contours of the chasm that thrummed constantly beneath them.

From behind his back, Megatron unclasped his servos and drew his arms up around to his chest to examine the objects he was holding.

Between his digits, he balanced the thin, elegant length of a metal smoking pipe. In the other servo, he held the worn datapad.

A strong rush of wind whistled over his plating.  
Megatron leaned into the cool touch of the air. He'd always been one to prefer the cold. 

Some mechs, back in the pits, had ranted about nothing more than the hot oil baths they looked forward to saving their credits for. In some more illustrious cases, mechs had smuggled heat tools into the barracks to warm their glossias for...particular activities.

In the ice-cold depths of the endless, echoing mines, Megatron recalled one particular mech that had been sent into the depths as a form of punishment. 

He had "Missed the sun," so he said.

Megatron had been sparked in the mines.  
He didn't long for such things as the sun.

From somewhere behind him, Megatron recognised the sounds of footfalls making their way up along the metals of the dock.

Megatron placed the thin tip of the pipe between his lip plates and reached into his subspace, drawing out a small ornate container with his free servo.  
He clicked it open with a dexterous flick of his wrist, and gingerly tapped a small portion of black powder into the bowl of the pipe.

The footfalls came to a stop beside him, and Megatron could see the soft reflection of lights bouncing off the orange and white plating in his leftmost peripheral.

"That's a filthy habit."

"I'm aware," Megatron said around the contour of the pipe against his lips, his optics still trained on the container as he clicked the lid closed.

He replaced the container into his subspace and sent a small portion of energy to the mounted cannon on his right arm - gingerly taking the pipe out of his mouth.

Pressing the cup of the pipe to the glowing maw of his fusion cannon, Megatron waited a few moments as the powder began to crackle and fizzle in the pipe.

"I never got the opportunity to thank you, doctor," Megatron said casually,  
optics focused on his task. "Knockout, in particular, seems rather enamoured with your work."

He lifted his servo, crackling pipe in hand, and pressed the tip to his lips.

"I doubt that's why you wanted to see me."

He could sense the disgust on the edge of Ratchet's EM field as he drew in a long vent, the black smoke swirling through his vents and pouring out in clouds from the vents in his waist as his body dutifully pumped it out.

"You hardly miss a beat," Megatron said ruefully as the smoke spilled out between the sharp contours of his teeth. He glanced to his left and saw that the medic was staring intently out over the docks, his face heavy with exhaustion.

Megatron placed the tip of the pipe between his teeth and passed the datapad from his right servo to his left, before extending his arm out, turning his gaze back towards the nemesis.

It was a moment before he felt the pad lift out of his servo.

There was a beat of quiet in which Megatron noted the mech mutter something absently under his breath.  
"Why do you have this?" Ratchet asked tiredly.

"I don't," Megatron said, puffing on the pipe.

"Megatron, be straight with me," Ratchet said tightly.

"Your illustrious Prime left it in the medical bay," Megatron replied simply, finally turning to meet Ratchet's displeased optics with a cold expression. "Like a distracted sparkling."

Ratchet's optics flickered away, a crease of concern on his faceplates as the very tail end of a flicker of worry lapped against Megatron's EM field.

"I'm sure Soundwave would love to pour through every file here," Ratchet muttered finally.

"Optimus has had that particular datapad for a very long time, Ratchet." Megatron said, his tone flat, "and we have had this peace for very little."

Ratchet scoffed, his optics flicking back up to Megatron's with contempt. "And you care about peace now."

Megatron's optics darkened, but Ratchet held his gaze firmly, the tension in the mech's ancient frame offering no give.

Megatron looked away.  
"Enough to entertain the meaningless prattle of endless political debate."

There was a pause in which Megatron could only imagine that Ratchet was considering him and his words, Megatron’s own gaze set firmly on the floating might of the Nemesis. 

The sound of Ratchet's fans cut through the silence, cycling out the black smog of Megatron's smoke.

"You're the one up in that obnoxious tower with him," Ratchet sighed bitterly, the weariness in his vocals bleeding through.  
"...Are you truly so stubborn as to go through me to avoid him, Megatron?"

Megatron blew a long, deliberate cloud out into the void of the docks, the bitter flavour leaving a smokey coating on the back of his glossia - pleasant only in its familiarity.

Ratchet made a dismissive sound when he didn't reply, the sound of Ratchet’s subspace activating cutting through the quiet darkness.

"You should quit," Ratchet said as he turned and began to walk away, the sounds of his peds echoing hauntingly into the darkness around them.  
"Smoke is hell on the vents."

\--

"We’ve received a few rather colourful complaints about the location of our current base of operations from Ratchet-” Starscream rolled a servo consideringly as he lingered on the phrasing. “...apparently it’s unappealing."

Optimus observed Starscream with a frown as he walked alongside Megatron, the sound of his heavy footfalls lost amongst the group as they echoed against the endless halls of the Nemesis.

Starscream's lithe frame bounced along the length of the seemingly endless grey halls as he spoke, his steps as quick and careful as the Seeker’s own nervous mannerisms. His servos twittered, switching between curling coyly behind his back to gesturing grandly.

The topic of Starscream’s ramble had veered just as erratically between topics as Starscream’s movements as he guided them further inward. Optimus suspected that, within the Seeker’s skewed grasp of social convention, it was his attempt at being a gracious host; after all, with Megatron occupying the tower of the New Iacon council building, one could argue that actual guardianship of the Nemesis fell squarely in Stasrscream’s servos - even if it did act as a base for both factions.

Such things were so strange to think.

Within the dim lighting, Optimus glanced at Megatron; the Silvery mech’s gaze lingering coldly on the sweeping movements and gestures of his enthusiastic second in command.

“Threatening, you mean.” Ultra Magnus’s curtly corrected Starscream’s previous statement from the back of the procession, causing Starscream expression to sour.

“Well,” Starscream said, rolling his optics, “I suppose the Decepticon harbinger is a tad reminiscent of...darker times~...”

A wave of hot air washed against the plating on Optimus’ left hip as Megatron exvented in irritation, and Optimus heard the fans behind the vents kick up.

Megatron’s fans had been a constant thrum on the edge of Optimus’ audials since the discussion in the council room yesterday. The bulk of Megatron’s larger-than-life war-frame commanded so much raw physical energy that the fan had remained a near-constant noise as soon as it had initially turned on.

It was a wonder, Optimus thought, that Megatron’s notoriously thin patience could stand it. 

It was a low toned thrum beneath every rasping argument, under every considered question. It was simply…distracting. And as of yesterday Optimus hadn’t had the benefit of his well-loved data-pad to easily refocus his processor - much to his own downcast bewilderment.

He was so careful - so meticulous in all things...but the other night had been so incredibly strange from start to finish, it was no wonder that half-way through peace talks he would open his subspace absently to grope wantingly at empty air.

Somewhere in the very far back of Optimus’ processor, he was unable to forget how Orion had felt long ago in the Iacon hall of records. Caught off guard without his usual hall-issued data-pad - searching on servos and knee struts under countless shelving units and tables looking for the thing.

Megatronus had been so worried then - so set on fixing, as he ever was, the problem he could see before him.

He’d never been entirely certain how Megatronus had gotten his servos on that new data-pad - all sleek white edges and crisp blue backlighting, but he’d been grateful for it. Promised on the Well of Allsparks that he'd never lose it.

Optimus felt the sigh rise in his intakes but contained it to a soft exvent through the pipes on his upper back.

: Swindle : Came Soundwave’s prompt from somewhere beside Ultra Magnus, and Starscream sighed loudly - an unusually welcome interruption to his train of thought.

“Can a mech not simply converse in a post-war Cybertron?!” Starscream asked dramatically as he turned a corner, “We’re almost there anyway.”

As the four mechs following him turned around the same corner, the grand set of double doors that marked the entrance to the Nemesis command centre slid dutifully apart and allowed them a grand unencumbered view of the goings-on within.

Optimus stepped forward into the entrance, his gaze sweeping what he could see of the room even as Starscream began to announce them - a resentful edge to his lilting tone.

“And welcoming the illustrious members of the New Iacon high council-”

Optimus could see the familiar red and black screens of the Nemesis command centre, each screen detailing different sets of quickly scrolling data - manned by a (now turning) collection of Vehicons.

Standing out starkly from amongst the litany of clones, one mech stood at the helm of the bridge. He was twisting to look as Starscream spoke, his blue optics wide and hopeful as they connected intently with Optimus from across the room.

“Optimus!” Smokescreen yelled, his faceplates breaking into an enormous grin.

Starscream sputtered at the sudden interruption with an erratic twitch of his wings - before continuing, with an indignant raise of his vocals: “And Lord Megatron!”

Smokescreen tossed a datapad onto a nearby console, causing a cacophony of error popups, and ran along the overhead platform towards the entrance at which the mechs stood. A breathless laugh rang loud and joyous over the sound of rising chatter from curious, peering Vehicons below.

“Smokescreen,” Optimus said with a fond rumble as the young mech came to a bouncy stop just in front of him, his EM field hitting Optimus roughly with unrestrained delight.

Optimus extended a servo and placed it on Smokescreen’s shoulder, Smokescreen’s EM field bleeding joy at the touch as the bot fidgeted under the touch. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

“A pleasure to see me?” Smokescreen asked incredulously, the doors on his back bouncing in such a way as to match the arch of his optical ridges. “It’s great to see YOU, Mr peace-talks and fancy-new-Iacon-tower mech!”

“Starscream.” The harsh interjection of Megatron’s voice punctuated the heavy thuds of his approaching footfalls, and Optimus felt the warmth in Smokescreen’s field vanish as quickly as it had enveloped him. “Have the relevant information drawn up and displayed on the monitors.”

Megatron walked slowly past Optimus, his optics trained straight ahead of him as he lumbered past, expression disinterested. His lip plate quirked with displeasure, “no use wasting time.”

Smokescreen opened his mouth, his expression one of a mech that had been struck unexpectedly, but Optimus reaffirmed his touch on Smokescreen’s shoulder - his own field radiating a gentle, practiced calm.

Optimus gazed kindly at Smokescreen, a smile tucked behind his battle mask creasing the edges of the plating lining his optics.  
“I mean what I say, Smokescreen. You are a sight for sore optics.”

The mech’s field fritzed with an embarrassed joy, and Smokescreen dragged a servo along the back of his neck with an embarrassed laugh - as easily distracted as Optimus had hoped. “Aw, sir.” 

Optimus looked up past Smokescreen as Starscream began to tap commands into the command server - the pings of the holo-keys echoing out loudly into the high-domed room.

Smokescreen glanced over his shoulder, observing the scene for a moment before his back-doors jolted upright with a start.  
“Oh! Yeah! right-” Smokescreen broke into a sprint along the length of the bridge and skidded to stop beside Starscream, who reeled back from the console with a cry of alarm as Smokescreen bashed inelegantly into it.

“Do you have that file?” Smokescreen asked urgently.

Starscream scoffed indignantly, his wings pinned high on his back. “Wh- Yes, I have the file! Might I remind you I’ve been doing this for eons longer than-”

“What file?” Ultra Magnus asked curtly, coming to a resolute stop beside Optimus at the foot of the bridge. 

“The file he originally sent to Soundwave that you guys reviewed up in that tower yesterday?” Smokescreen began, folding his arms, leaning back on the console. “It’s outdated, so we made a new one.”

Megatron, who was a few steps from Starscream, appeared to be regarding the two of them with quiet consideration - but Optimus recognised the displeased tension in the mech’s stance - eons of war making him intimately familiar with Megatron’s tells.

Starscream waved his servo dismissively, shooting a withering glare at Smokescreen, “What this mechling means is...updated! We’ve updated the information on the document - hence why it felt relevant to call you to meet with us in person.”

“Relevant in that we’ve realised that the coordinates for Swindle’s stay of port change every 6 joors,” Smokescreen supplied with a smug glance in Starscream’s direction. “So the coordinates we sent you yesterday are-” Smokescreen shrugged, “garbage. And will be garbage again in another three.”

Starscream’s expression was somehow both apologetic and venomous, his optics flicking between his master and (reluctant) team-mate. However he wasted no time in turning back towards the consol - typing something briskly into the control keys.

On one of the major overhead screens, an image of a red and silver planet flashed to life. It was striking to look at - with clear hints of glittering metal peeking out from under a wash or bright red organic matter.

“It took us approximately 3 joors to do, as Smokescreen has so helpfully implied, but we’ve successfully decoded the most recent set of coordinates.” Starscream turned to face the gathered council members and laid a servo elegantly on his chest, “Provided of course by an excellent contact of mine - they like to keep tabs on the big bots.”

Smokescreen attempted to imitate the pose, his own expression twisting into an aloof mockery of Starscream’s own.

Optimus levelled him with a disapproving expression from across the bridge.

“He’s on this little off-world colony planet. Croaton; some pre-war expansion project…” Starscream waved a dismissive servo.

Smokescreen raised his servos at Optimus apologetically - a mischievous grin undermining the sincerity of such a gesture, and Optimus heard Ultra Magnus sigh loudly.

Smokescreen moved up close to Starscream’s side and pointed up at the screen, towards a small cluster of silvery shapes on one portion of the planet. “If I may direct our tour to look over here, you’ll see a techno-organic city tucked into the forests there.”

“A Cybertronian settlement,” Ultra Magnus stated out loud, and Optimus turned to consider him.  
“This may be fortunate for our arrival there. It would be counterproductive to trade negotiations if our council were to arrive on an unaffiliated planet, given how the galactic council viewed Cybertron during the war.”

Optimus nodded in agreement, turning to look at Megatron, who was regarding him imperiously - though he also nodded slowly, his red optics flicking towards the image with a thoughtful expression.

“Ah...Do you mean to say you intend to take the entire council with you for these negotiations...?” Starscream began hesitantly, one servo raising in tentative concern.

“Why?” Megatron asked, his helm snapping sharply down towards Starscream.

“The ports there are really strict about who they let in and out of the city,” Smokescreen supplied casually, and Megatron’s attention was redirected to him.

Optimus stepped forward, approaching to join them at the consoles - and Megatron’s optics were quick to flick in his direction.

Smokescreen shoved Starscream out of the way to a strangled squawk, and typed something brisk into the console.

An old entry from the Iacon hall of records came onto the screen, with a much older - much shinier - image of the city displayed prominently amongst lush red trees.

“Arcee dug up this file for us before she went out to scout Energon mines with Bumblebee this morning. Turns out the city closed it’s docks to anything bigger than a two person shuttle after one of their major city sectors got taken out early on in the war.” Smokescreen turned, crossing his arms and shrugging as Optimus came to stop beside Megatron. “Makes sense, but it means we can’t bring the nemesis.”

“A two person craft,” Ultra Magnus said, his tone concerned. Optimus turned to look over his shoulder as Magnus directed his words towards him. “Perhaps you and I, Optimus-”

“You do not imagine that an ex-decepticon will have much interest speaking to the likes of the Autobot leader and his general, do you…?” Megatron cut in dryly, an optic ridge raised as he observed Ultra Magnus - the licks of contempt on the edges of his tightly reigned field.  
“Because I do not think any weapons dealer has made their bed being especially swayed by the weight of the primacy these past few millennia.”

“What would you offer to the alternative, Megatron?” Optimus asked, his tone even but with a firm edge. 

Megatron’s gaze levelled carefully with Optimus’ own, his expression dark but considering. 

“I agree that the neutrality of this...arms dealer we now appear to be hunting down is a potential hurdle in our ventures of trade.” Megatron began. He drew his arms together, folding them as his gaze trailed thoughtfully over the monitor that showcased Croaton.  
“However, given how Swindle is reported to have abandoned not only the Decepticons, but the war itself, I find cause to doubt his interest in speaking to a mech of either Autobot or Decepticon designation.”

“It is hard to imagine which side might have the better opportunity of swaying him,” Optimus agreed.

“And such resources as this mech supposedly possesses are no laughing matter.” Megatron’s fiery optics reconnected firmly with Optimus.  
“We cannot afford to get it wrong the first time, as there will likely be no second.” Megatron finished, vocals tight.

There was something to his phrasing that struck a chord with Optimus. A metaphor, tucked into the shadows and ghosts of Megatron’s weary optics and ancient frame.

Optimus made a quiet noise of agreement, a soft rumble deep in his chassis. He folded his arms behind his back and wrapped his rightmost servo around his leftmost wrist - digits twitching in the absence of his missing data-pad.

“Perhaps,” Optimus began, his optics dropping as he considered his thoughts, “a mech of...neutral standing could be sought out, someone capable of speaking on our behalf.”

“And who exactly would you propose for such a task?” Megatron asked, and Optimus saw the tip of Megatron’s ped step into view - the hot wash of his vents reacquainting itself with his outer plating.

Optimus looked up, and found himself within a servos distance of Megatron - the taller mech’s regal gaze trained on his with a look of lofty curiosity as he stepped in Optimus’ personal space. The lick of his field brief but ever-intense. 

“We have no such mech on the council,” Megatron continued, “and all those acting with us behind the scenes still bear the mark of either you or I - such is the way of politics. The vetting process for a neutral stranger is undoubtedly an arduous one - and we have little time until our prolific trader changes his location again.”

Optimus tried to tune out the hum of Megatron’s fans, but he was close enough that Optimus realised he could smell the faintest hint of smoke lingering in the air between them. 

He’d been smoking again.

“Perhaps a representative from both sides,” Optimus offered, clearing his intake to try and purge his olfactory sensors of the smell with little luck. “A united offer, from a now united Cybertron.”

Megatron scoffed but didn’t counter him - instead he leaned the weight of his form onto one hip, favouring his right leg casually as he mulled over the thought.

“...And who would you propose?”

Optimus straightened and looked around the room consideringly.

Starscream seemed distracted from the conversation - his optics narrowed fiercely at a grinning Smokescreen, who appeared to be whispering something vaguely taunting at him from his place beside the seeker.

Optimus turned and looked in the other direction.

Ultra Magnus nodded at him alertly, his stature ramrod straight and composed. From a short distance behind him, Soundwave’s bank faceplates observed the room with a solemn, eerie presence.

“Starscream is our resident trade negotiator,” Optimus began, carefully. “And Ultra Magnus is well-versed in-”

“Ah-” Starscream butted in, and Optimus turned his helm in time with Megatron to observe the stuttering, nervous seeker. “Not to throw a wrench in things but - well - Swindle has something of a reputation...He’s never exactly been…”

“Open to visitors,” Smokescreen said, crossing his arms and leaning casually against Starscream’s side - who’s plating rattled as he shot a venomous glare at the smaller mech, his talons curling aggressively.  
“There’s a whole file on the guy. He’s a kingpin -” Smokescreen shrugged, jostling one of Starscream's pauldrons much to Starscream’s muttered displeasure, “Plus he doesn’t exactly need a restored Cybertron if he’s got enough personal resources to ping around from planet to planet every 6 joors. Whoever you send there needs to make a pretty solid first impression, and somehow I doubt firecracker and grandpa are the best duo to do it.”

Starscream and Ultra Magnus both spluttered at that.

“So be it,” Megatron said, his dark gaze lingering on Starscream just long enough for the Seeker to abruptly shove Smokescreen off him.

Megatron turned his helm towards Optimus, the lingering smell of smoke as present to Optimus' senses as the endless whir of his fans.

“Well, Prime," Megatron said, his optics alight. "..Shall we?”


	7. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus was turning back towards the window now, Megatron’s lack of reply taken as a dismissive answer, and no, that wouldn't do.
> 
> It happened before he could think to stop it - his restless, itching servos reaching out - his burning, blazing spark so used to taking what it wished for.
> 
> He caught Optimus’ face between the tips of his digits - the pointed edges scraping lightly against the metal, the touch instinctively gentle but uncompromisingly firm - and turned his helm to face him.
> 
> Optimus went still in his grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild trigger warning for uncomfy sexual advances from an unnamed side character.

The harsh sweeping of wind across the bustling open space of the Iaconian docks, was far too cold for Orion’s tastes.

He shivered, his civilian grade plating rattling as he clasped his servos together, breathing warm vents of air against the dark grey palms.

Orion’s gaze swept the length of the docks, his optics moving from ship to cruiser - seeking out the familiar gleam he was waiting for.

Another rush of cold air battered against his plating, punctuated by the shrill whistle of wind over metal as a fast little cruiser shot by, and Orion grimaced (or perhaps pouted) at no one in particular.

Curse his eagerness.  
He should’ve suggested they meet at the Hall of Records. Objectively It wasn’t that far off from the main thoroughfare, and it was so much warmer there.

Orion Pax, the indoorsy librarian he was, had always relished in the warmth of his lovingly heated library. Soft gusts of artificial heating constantly poured from hidden vents under the base of the shelving units, washing over each inquisitive soul that came to visit like the embrace of a lover’s EM field.

Not that Orion was experienced with such things, but he could imagine it was much the same.

He tucked his servos under his arms and squinted into the cold wind, optics peering at a shape rocketing towards the port from along the ridges of the distant highway- sharp glints of light piercing the sky as it came nearer and nearer.

He stepped backwards slowly, raising one servo to block the painful glare - peering past his parted digits to try and gauge the size of the craft.

Perhaps that-?

There was a loud crashing sound as Orion, crying out in alarm, stumbled backwards against the mass of another mech - the two of them stumbling once, then twice, before they both tumbled in a clatter of metal to the ground below.

Orion found himself face-up towards the grey, evening sky - his audials ringing with the echoing sound of impacting metal and his back pressed against the cold hard ground of the dock’s metal walkway. He could hear the groan of another mech from somewhere behind him.

Orion flipped over awkwardly, a few stray pebbles from the ground clinking in the space between his vent pipes and his back strut, caught uncomfortably during the tumble.

“I’m so sorry,” Orion sputtered, his wide circular optics coming face to face with a rather disgruntled looking dock worker - their scuffed red faceplates creased into a scarred frown.

Orion briskly clambered up onto his peds, the pebbles plinking to the ground as they fell between the gaps of his pipes, and extended an apologetic servo down at the bulky mech. 

“Watch your step, city-kid,” the mech ground out, his voice thick and heavy in a manner that suggested he’d been cutting whatever he smoked with tar or coal. The mech grunted and rose to his feet, ignoring the servo held out to him.

“My apologies,” Orion began, his helm quickly craning upward as the bulkier mech stood to his full height. “I didn’t mean to-”

The other mech, clearly some kind of heavy-duty transport vehicle, stood a good few heads taller than Orion - his imposingly wide shoulder span blotting out what little light remained in the greying evening skies overhead.  
He rolled an arm joint, the worn metal creaking and groaning loudly as he did so.

“Your apologies don’t mean nothin’,” The mech said dryly, his optics trained on his arm as he tested the cords within. “Never does from the likes’a yer caste.” 

The dock worker’s dull-coloured optics drifted disinterestedly over to Orion, and Orion felt a prickle of unease slither over his EM field as the larger mech slowly began to run his gaze down along the length of his frame.

“You some kind’er...convoy?” The other mech asked finally, his heated stare sending Orion glancing around the empty walkways uneasily.

While the chasm of the docking yard was an ever-constant flood of incoming and outgoing ships, the walkways themselves were rarely manned. The only section that mechs tended to gather was by the loading bay - and Orion had opted to wait in a more secluded spot, somewhere where his guest would be more readily able to spot him.

You know, because he’d be on his own.

Orion cursed his eagerness for the second time.

“...Yes. Yes I’m a transport convoy -” Orion finally supplied, his EM field curling tightly inward around him as he registered the heavy, laboured vents of the mech before him. “A tad unusual for a, uhm, city-mech I know.”

The other mech took a large, lumbering step forward - the heavy crunch of a partially rusted ped sending sharp shudders down Orion’s audials as the mech before him stared intently. 

“You should stop lingerin’ near the edge of the docks - I ain’t taking the blame if yer clutzy aft falls in and gets shattered by a cruiser.” 

There was something in the lilting curve of a smile on the mech’s scuffed faceplates that suggested to Orion that what he had said was supposed to be funny.

Orion laughed tightly.

The first brush of a hot, sickeningly interested EM field flirted with his own as the mech took another step towards him, and Orion desperately opened up his internal contacts, a terrified smile plastered instinctively to his faceplates as the mech said something that Orion couldn’t even begin to hear over the thrum of his own spark. 

Who did he know who would be available to answer him right now? Ratchet? Ratchet never took his calls while he was working.  
Alpha Trion, maybe? Did he even have Alpha Trion’s personal commlink, or just his secretary’s? 

His processor was starting to blank out as the mech before him spoke, his expression lingering downwards as his muffled speaking continued somewhere far beyond Orion’s audials. Primus, where was he looking that was making him grin like that? Should he feel embarrassed, perhaps even flattered? No, somehow he was sure the instinctive, ice-cold dread in the pit of his tanks was right.

Primus, he couldn’t think. All the coding in his processor was crashing against itself wildly as his coding sought out a scenario he’d experienced that was even remotely close to this. 

The mech was looking past him now - and oh, oh maybe that was good? He’d stopped talking - his expression replaced by a squint of confusion.  
Orion realised he could hear something, barely, over the pounding of his spark - that familiar piercing whistle of air rushing over metal - but his audials were still fritzed out, he couldn’t distinguish how close it was-

The thunderous impact of something enormous hitting the ground behind Orion shook the very metal they stood on, and he stumbled, his processor spinning for answers and blanking out all at once. 

A rush of warm air hit his back plating in a hot, harsh wave - and alongside it came the sudden overwhelming explosion of a powerful, warm and absolutely furious EM field.

And oh.

Oh thank PRIMUS he’d finally made it.

Orion spun around, barely catching the morph of wide-eyed horror on the dock worker’s face as Megatronus’ enormous stature consumed his vision - his silver-barrelled chest sliding the last few sections of metal back into place as he rose slowly out of his detransformation.

Orion had always been a smaller mech, but while the dockworker had been a few heads taller, Orion was truly dwarfed by Megatronus.

He craned his helm backwards as far as he could, straining the cables in his neck as his servos absently lifted to rest gingerly against Megatronus plating. 

A rush of desperate relief bled straight from Orion’s very spark, into his rapidly extending field, and through the tips of his digits against the rumbling metal - his field bumping up against Megatronus with an eagerness born of wishing to wash the taste of the dockworker away. 

As desired, his field was drawn in, quickly and entirely consumed by the familiar, passionate fire that was Megatronus’ aura.

Orion met Megatronus’ shining blue optics with a nervous laugh of gratitude.  
“It’s cold,” was all he could seem to awkwardly manage to pull from his jumbled processor - his vocals coming out thin and reedy. “You’re late and it’s cold.”

Megatronus optics shone, chilled and bright - twin moons against a silver sky. His faceplates were expressionless but Orion could see the tension in his close companion - the barely perceptible crease on the plating between his optics and the taut strain of cabling that connected his jaw to his clavicle.

“I am sorry, Orion,” Megatronus said - a soft growl. His optics searched Orion’s face, darted down across his shoulders and chest - not invasively, but merely...checking. 

The feeling of his friend’s gaze on him was a very different feeling to that of the dock worker’s - the concern flickering in his field and the worried tension in his shoulders communicating a very different, very welcome emotion.

Orion felt safe under this gaze.

Megatronus’ optics snapped sharply towards the mech that was still behind Orion.

A smile blossomed on Megatronus’ silvery faceplates - a sudden, startling change that showed off the glint of his devilishly sharp dentae as they caught the waning evening light.

“What a great misfortune I have presented you with Orion, to have kept you waiting like this,” Megatronus said, his voice warm and dangerous.  
He curled a set of talons around Orion’s shoulders and pressed Orion suddenly and carefully up against his chest - the rumble of his engines travelling through Orion’s own chest plates in such a way that Orion’s more delicate plating rattled with the force of it.

Orion turned his head against Megatronus chest, glancing back over his shoulder as Megatronus held him close.  
The other mech had frozen to the spot, his optics wide and his expression awed. His large working-frame, which had seemed so large to Orion just moments before, now felt so helplessly small in Megatronus’ presence. 

A benevolent, imperious disdain flickered across the field Orion now shared, not born of his own emotions - but absorbed into his own spark as his plating flushed with gratitude at his companions' intimidating show of loyalty.

“However,” Megatronus continued in a manner that was deceptively soft, “It seems my lateness has granted me the opportunity to make a new acquaintance. Such a treat.”

The dangerous, knife-like edge to his words seemed to be what made the dock worker finally unfreeze. His helm dipped away as his optics cycled rapidly, a bead of condensation trailing conspicuously down the red splash of his faceplates. The mechanical strain of his worn mechanisms was audible as he began to move, hesitantly, away from Orion and Megatronus.

“Oron, was it? Sorry there mate but I’d...I’d best be goin’,” He said, optics flickering around him in such a way that reminded Orion of his own panic not moments earlier. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt yer out’n now would I…?”

The rumble of Megatronus engine kicked up, and Orion shivered instinctively as something cold rippled across his shared field. “Oh?” Megatronus asked, a bored lilt to his words. “Such a shame - and here I was so looking forward to introducing myself properly.”

The dock worker muttered something apologetic as he began lumbering faster - his gate picking up speed as his lopsided walk turned into an uneven jog.

Orion sighed heavily, and somewhat shakily, as a tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding finally bled from the tight struts of his shoulders and back - and the roar of Megatronus engine softened back down into a rumble.

He looked up at Megatronus with endless variations of thank you cramming at the edge of his vocalizer - but Megatronus' own suddenly mirthful optics caught him, twinkling with that endless depth of wit and intelligence, and Orion lost every word.

“When you said that the Iacon hall of records contained many desirable items, I did not realise you had meant to include yourself in that statement, Orion.”

Orion’s processor stalled.

And then he smacked Megatronus.

Megatronus laughed, a deep, rich, gravelly thing even as Orion shoved him away and stuttered indignantly with a brilliant blue flush.

“You’re terrible!” Orion cried, averting his optics even as he felt an incredulous smile quirk at the edges of his lips. “You haven’t even afforded me the chance to recover and here you are already teasing me? What am I meant to do with you!?”

“Hire me as a guard, perhaps,” Megatronus said with a broad grin, his servo resting delicately on the portion of his arm that Orion had swatted, as though it was some great wound.  
“It seems you are in need of such things. I leave you by yourself for but one orbital cycle and find you accosted on the street! Goodness, how selfish Alpha Trion must be to keep you from the rest of Cybertron.”

“Megatronus!” Orion cried with embarrassment, even as the taller mech clapped him fondly around the shoulders. Orion could feel the good-natured wash of Megatronus’ field, and relented just slightly, allowing Megatronus to pull him along the walkway of the docks.

There was a moment in which Megatronus’ chuckling trailed off into the air, and Orion finally started to register the bite of the cold once more against his plating.  
From how he was tucked up into Megatronus side he could feel the warm puff of Megatronus’ vents - and he leaned into it, seeking the warmth it brought.

“It’s cold,” Orion said again, his arms folding to tuck up against his chest. “I truly hate the cold.”

“I’m sorry, Orion.”

Orion looked up, all displeasure falling away to surprise as he gazed up at the suddenly very sombre mech. Megatronus was looking ahead as they walked, gazing distantly.

“Whatever for?” Orion asked, worry catching the edge of his vocalizer.

“As you said,” Megatronus answered, a softness to his voice that resulted in a gentle rumble in his chest plates - Orion could feel it against his side. “It is cold, and I am late.”

“Oh- that?” Orion began with surprise. “I wasn’t really thinking-”

Megatronus looked down at Orion, his expression firm. “I mean it. I did not mean to keep you waiting, Orion. Not on your own like that.”

Orion gazed up at Megatronus with wide optics, before finally letting way to a smile, his optics brightening with a fondness he only reserved for the likes of a few very specific mechs in his life.

“Oh Megatronus, old friend, don’t worry. It’s a rare day I ever stray especially far from my library...” He chuckled softly, a tad embarrassed as he continued, “Or you for that matter.”

\--

Megatron watched from his position in the copilot's seat as Optimus shoulder’s scraped awkwardly against the narrow entrance to WheelJack’s ship.

The ship was, in truth, too small for either of them - let alone both of them - but as far as ships went, this was the only two-person cruiser they had access to. And as such, he acknowledged with gruff displeasure, so it must be.

Megatronus could see a glimpse of Ultra Magnus’ face from somewhere behind Optimus’ awkwardly hunched form - talking in a low voice to his superior as Optimus boarded the cramped vessel.

Megatron couldn’t make out the words, whispered as they were, but it was no especially troublesome matter. Soundwave would see to it that nothing important was missed.

Megatron shifted in the seat - turning so he was facing forward towards the vast control console. The breadth of the consol was made up of a series of differently coloured panels littered with various lights and switches - a rough patch job if ever Megatron had seen one.  
The console spanned the entire dash of the craft - shared between the pilot and copilot, with the steering yoke fitted into the section directly in front of the pilot's seat.

Megatron leaned back in the small chair, the shifting of his mass drawing a shrill squeal from the thin metal. With a grunt of displeasure, Megatron slid his thighs apart to try and disperse his weight, resting his servos uncomfortably on the tops of his legs - his metal itching for space, desperate to stretch even now when he’d barely been sitting for a klik.

Megatron glanced out of the glass of the windshield, optics wandering the docks.

The bright lights of the midday sun glimmered and flickered blindingly off the various metals of the shipping yard, the ominous shape of the Nemesis acting as a thunderous black cloud against a sea of glints and twinkles.  
Megatron squinted at it with a thin press of his lip-plates - remembering the cavernous space of the helm room.

The sound of a soft tonk of metal to his left ripped his gaze away from the docks, and he turned his helm just in time to see Optimus duck awkwardly away from a jutting out portion of metal that sat lower than the rest of the roof.

Seemingly, he had walked into it.

The Prime blinked, almost wonderingly, at the piece of metal - like it’s very existence had caught him completely off guard - though his ever-present battlemask prevented Megatron from getting a sense of his expression as a whole. 

“Sometimes,” Megatron began with a dry drawl as Optimus ducked under the overhang and began edging his way awkwardly into the confined space of the pilots seat. “I forget that you weren’t always sparked a war-frame.”

Optimus glanced fleetingly in Megatron’s direction, his slightly curious gaze meeting Megatron’s bemused one. Optimus shuffled the rest of the way to the seat, before finally sliding down into the chair beneath him with a loud, resonant clang.

Megatron let out a rough ‘hah’ of amusement.

Optimus sighed, tiredly, and reached his servos out to curl the fingers around the grips of the steering mechanism.  
“I have become used to such things.”

Megatron quirked an optical ridge at the wording, watching as Optimus leaned forward to flick a series of switches on the console in such a manner that spoke of deeply ingrained experience.

“Such things…?” Megatron inquired with a grin, languidly tilting his helm and crossing his arms over his chest. “Elaborate for me Prime, as I am afraid I cannot tell if you are referring to your frame-type or my aforementioned forgetfulness.”

Optimus pressed the ignition button and the battered old transport shuddered to life, the metals rattling until the engine’s initial stuttering evened out to a semi-smooth pur.

The communication systems embedded in the consol fritzed with static until the sound of Wheeljack’s voice crackled out of a tinny speaker.

“Wheeljack to Prime - you readin’ me?”

“Loud and clear, Wheeljack.” Optimus replied, and Megatron let out a ‘tch’ of annoyance at having been ignored - his gaze returned to the view outside, observing as Starscream’s arial form swept through air of the chasm - nudging and coercing transports aside as the port cleared for their departure.

“Great,” Wheeljack said casually. “Just do a quick once over on all the console settings before you take off and you should be clear to go. Space bridge is powering up as we speak.”

Optimus straightened at the console, reaffirming his grip on the steering mechanism, and looked expectantly at Megatron.

Megatron glanced back, disinterestedly.

Optimus, after a pause, cleared his intake, and lifted one servo. Megatron watched as Optimus gestured somewhat hesitantly in the direction of the console portion that rested in front of Megatron.

Ah, Megatron acknowledged with an audible exvent, the ‘systems’.

Megatron flickered his optics upward in a manner reminiscent of a barely withheld eye-roll, before straightening up.

Megatron swept his gaze over the various switches and dials, taking in the simple short-hand labels with a bored, though practised optic. He’d grown intimately familiar with the shorthand Autobot’s used during the war - and while the wreckers had their own unique brand of it, messy and a tad unpolished, it was ultimately still Autobot shorthand.

His digits trailed briskly down the console, pausing occasionally to flick a switch or press a mechanism into an ON position. He worked fairly quickly, as experience with such things afforded him little hesitation, and it was barely a klik before he was able to survey his work as a whole, ensuring he’d approached the process correctly. 

“Systems are in order,” he supplied distractedly to the comms, his optics still lingering on a few switches, double-checking their positions and lingering on a few flickering lights.

A pause of static greeted the air between them for a few moments.

“Hey Prime,” Came Wheeljack’s carefree tone after a moment, “are the systems in order?”

A flash of anger tore through Megatron’s spark and a growl ripped from his throat as he shot an acidic glare at the comms unit.  
“The insolence-” He hissed, barely more than a rasp in his vocalizer as his field flared angrily out around him - some distant part of his processor registering the wall of tightly reigned self control his field bashed into.

“Wheeljack,” Optimus said, disapprovingly, a tense edge to his tone. “Please take Megatron at his word, and clear us for takeoff.”

Megatron growled in annoyance, the bright flash of his optics training themselves on Optimus’ stern but otherwise emotionless faceplates. He heard, rather than felt the sound of denting metal.

Optimus glanced down at Megatron's servo with a look of poorly contained displeasure.

Megatron, growling, looked out the window and slowly released his grip on the arm of the chair. Portions of the crushed metal pinged and groaned as parts of it popped back into place while others remained dented.

There was another push of static from the comms unit, before a chuckle echoed out from it. “Alight captain, whatever you say - you’re clear for takeoff. Try to bring my baby back in one piece.”

Megatron growled deep in his chest.

“Affirmative. We will radio back in upon reaching our destination,” Optimus said, sternly watching as Megatron drummed his digits on the dented metal. "Over and out."  
The comms unit warbled static before clicking off entirely, the final permission in their departure.

Optimus sighed.

The craft suddenly bobbed forward through the air as, with a soft push, Optimus carefully engaged the steering yoke.

Optics still trained on the view ahead, Megatron leaned down to one side and grasped a lever down by the base of his chair - his gaze was still sour as he released mechanism. He ran his glossia across the front of his dentae.  
“Your wreckers could stand to learn their place, Prime.” 

Optimus reached down and, similarly, clutched at a lever at his own side. He released it, and with both gears in place, the craft lurched forward and rapidly began to take on speed.

“It will take time for them to adjust to the new way of things.” Optimus replied seriously, his gaze averted in such a manner as to be apologetic even as he quickly pulled back on the yoke, curving the craft upward towards the sky. “Wheeljack most of all.”

Megatron scoffed, “Spare me.”

There was a pause between the two mechs as the craft rocketed upward, the rattle of air resistance jostling the two mechs within tas they waited through an otherwise pregnant silence.

“My frame,” Optimus finally said, his tone soft but still serious. “Your earlier question. I’ve grown used to it.”

Megatron felt a smile tug at the corners of his lip plates - pleased for the interesting distraction.

“Oh?” He asked, an inescapable curiosity curling up through his field even as his tone took on a mocking, perhaps teasing lilt. “Such a trial. It is perhaps especially ironic that the Primacy should reformat a high-caste mech as Orion Pax into a build so opposed to the biases of Iacon’s upper class.” 

Far ahead, the neon hues of the blue and green space bridge rapidly began drawing into view, and Megatron steadied his peds against the floor - bracing himself even as Optimus steadied himself in Megatron’s peripheral.

“...And yet you say you forget how I once was. It seems that you remember well, Megatron.”

Megatron barked a laugh, harsh but genuine, turning his helm to look at Optimus. “You’ve caught me out!” 

The plating around Optimus’ optics creased just barely, highlighted by the intense hues of the rapidly approaching space bridge. However, with the placement of that accursed battle-mask Megatron couldn’t determine if it was from a poorly contained smile or a deep frown.

Megatron cocked his helm consideringly, flicking his optics over Optimus’ face.“Should I be frank with you and say that I simply do not care to remember? Of course I remain aware, Optimus, of the absurdly delicate mech you once were.”

The glow of the space bridge consumed them as they shot inside - a swirling world of bright greens and blues pulling them deep into the warped condensement of space, and Megatron found himself catching the edge of the console as the plating of the ship rattled and jostled through the experience.

Optimus glancing gaze caught his own, even as his helm remained trained forward - their bumping frames clattering loudly. “I was a librarian Megatron - It is only natural that my frame was lightweight.”

Megatron laughed, a raspy sound. “Indeed you were - lightweight that is. I recall you weighed little more than a mech half your height might have.” 

He could see the hesitant dip of Optimus' gaze at the recollection of how Megatronus could so easily lift him, once upon a time.

“You yourself have changed very little,” Optimus finally commented. Megatron hummed curiously in response.

“As you mentioned the other day, Optimus.” Megatron said, the swirling blues and greens around them beginning to fade as they travelled through the length of the space bridge at speed. “I recall you said it quite bitterly. Tell me, how is it I have not changed, Optimus? I feel a great deal different than many eons passed.”

Optimus leaned forward, reaching towards the console to flick a series of switches, his optics focussing in on the sudden appearance of a silver and red planet jumping into view before them as the curls of the space bridge faded away.

“Do you recall, Megatron, your battle with Ground-Pounder in the arenas of Kaon?”

“Of course,” Megatron replied immediately, pride lacing his vocals. “A particularly brilliant battle. I recall it’s difficulty with great pleasure.”

Optimus’ digits reaffirmed their grip on the steering yolk, his optics trained on the planet before them, their craft slowing a touch as they approached. “You collapsed at the entrance to your berth-room after that fight. Do you remember?”

“Come again, Prime?” Megatron asked, all teasing dropped from his tone.

“You didn’t fuel before the battle,” Optimus supplied, and Megatron felt the prickle of cold displeasure curling up around his spark as he cocked his helm slowly. His optics narrowed as he peered at Optimus with incredulous displeasure.

Optimus continued, undeterred by the dark gaze trained on him from the passenger seat. “I found you much the same the other night, if you’ll recall. In the refuelling station.”

Megatron turned his gaze away at the same time as Optimus looked at him. He observed the approaching silver and red hues of their destination - surrounded by swirling rocks and debris in the open wrath of space.

“An unfortunate incident,” Megatron rasped darkly, all pretence of banter drained and replaced by an impatient mood that was unwelcoming to Optimus’ choice of topic. “One I do not intend to repeat, and as such, It is hardly any business of yours how I choose to conduct matters of personal health.”

“I know.”

It was softer than Megatron wanted it to be. He hated how gently Optimus acknowledged the boundary - despised the caution with which Optimus was handling this. He wasn’t fragile, and Optimus, out of every mech Cybertron had ever sparked, should have known this most intimately.

“I was wrong, Prime,” Megatron said through a clenched smile, turning to catch Optimus' surprised optics. “You are in fact quite similar to Orion Pax. He was also a fiendish little busy-body.”

Something in Optimus’ posture deflated - his optics flickering away as Megatron huffed and twisted to stare back out into space - shifting restlessly within the confined space.  
“Now leave the subject be, Prime.”

“...As you wish.”

“You are infuriating, are you aware?” Megatron asked, spinning suddenly to snap at him with an incensed frustration as Optimus blinked.

Optimus seemed almost startled - but again, his infuriating battle-mask left the expression half made. Megatron tightened his lip-plates in frustration even as Optimus began to speak: “I am leaving it be-”

“Take your ridiculous mask down, for Primus sake! We’re piloting a ship not grappling in Tiger Pax!”

Optimus sputtered in confusion, his own incredulous expression conveying some of the more open frustration Megatron had managed to coax from him in some time. The mask, after a moment, snapped back loudly - and Megatron could see the tight frown buried beneath it, accompanying the confused furrow of his brow and inquisitive light in his optics - a finally complete picture.

“Megatron,” Optimus said, his ever serious tone laced with confusion, “You are being impossible.”

The entirety of Optimus expression revealed to him was...uncommon. Megatron had so rarely seen Optimus without it.  
Megatron wondered, at this moment, when the last time had been that he’d seen Optimus in such a state...

Orion Pax.

Orion Pax resurfacing with the brief relinquishing of the Matrix had been perhaps one of the only occasions Megatron had ever encountered the reformatted Optimus Prime without his...infuriating battle-mask.

Optimus was turning back towards the window now, Megatron’s lack of reply taken as a dismissive answer, and no, that wouldn't do.

It happened before he could think to stop it - his restless, itching servos reaching out - his burning, blazing spark so used to taking what it wished for.

He caught Optimus’ face between the tips of his digits - the pointed edges scraping lightly against the metal, the touch instinctively gentle but uncompromisingly firm - and turned his helm to face him.

Optimus went still in his grasp.

Megatron’s fingers twitched - their touching EM fields fritzing and buzzing against one another - alarmingly intimate, achingly familiar.  
Something in Megatron's spark sputtered at his own recklessness, alarmed and unprepared for his own impulsive actions...but he'd played poker with Optimus a million times on the battlefield, and not now nor ever would Megatron stutter in his actions. Not in front of Optimus Prime.

As Optimus’ stared at him with unhidden surprise, Megatron slowly turned the helm in his grasp - examining it in the overhead lights of the cabin with a gentle but firm servo. His flickering red optics curiously analysed the scuffed sheen of the silvery metal - exploring his captive with a rarely allowed indulgence, pouring over the ridges in the structure, following the slopes and curves that made up the unique build of Optimus Prime's face.

“Your frame became very different when it was reformatted…” Megatron murmured consideringly, and he felt Optimus shift slightly under his touch but not pull away, the slide of the metal on his digits making a soft scraping noise. “However your face remains much the same, if a little older.” 

“...It has been many eons, Megatron,” Optimus said, his voice stiff but quiet. “We have both grown old.”

Megatron ‘tch’ed in reply, his optics still exploring Optimus' face.  
His optics lingered on an indented scrape carved into the metal beside Optimus’ lower lip, and he managed to reign in his self-control just enough to stop himself from brushing his thumb over it. “You’ve an unfamiliar scar, Prime.”

“...Starscream,” Optimus supplied after a moment, an air of consideration to his words, as though he wasn't sure. His optics were flitting over Megatron’s face, his field tense and his jaw tight. Megatron could feel the ripple of tension under his digits, travelling through their fields like a shared shiver. “Before earth.”

Megatron clicked his glossia in disapproval, a displeased rumble somewhere deep in his engine. “And yet I see not a lick of our own battles etched into your armour, Optimus.”  
Megatron’s optics lifted to catch Optimus’, drinking in the other mech’s tension - lingering in the moment as Optimus' bright blue optics shone intently into his own.

“Tell me, Prime. Should I be jealous...?”

The comm systems fritzed and crackled, and a Cybertronian voice cut sharply through the tension with all the glamour of Wheeljack’s tinny internal speakers - sending a jolt of shock through their shared field in such a manner as to make Megatron’s servo snap harshly away from Optimus, as though burned.

“This is Croaton’s docking liaison,” buzzed the muffled speaker, “We’re seeking out a presently unregistered aircraft, please identify yourself and state your intent.”

Megatron drew his gaze towards the comms unit sourly, the lingering prickle of Optimus’ field tingling on the tips of his digits as Optimus snapped his battle-mask back into place with an unyielding lack of hesitation.

“Well Optimus,” Megatron said, turning his unamused gaze towards Optimus and taking in his thoroughly discomforted expression. “It seems we have successfully arrived at our destination.”

Optimus cleared his intakes and curled his servos around the yoke.

“Indeed.”


	8. Swindle's Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron reached for his servo and, in the strange performance being held between them, Optimus allowed it - the rough silvery talons enveloping his own.
> 
> For one, impossible second, everyone in the room went completely still as Megatron lowered his helm and, very gently, bumped Optimus Prime's knuckles against the crest of his helm. 
> 
> An act of reverence. 
> 
> Optimus vents stuttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is insanely long lmao so I hope you enjoy ^-^
> 
> WARNING for uncomfy sexual touches from unnamed strangers and the implied abuse of Pleasure-Bots. Additional warning for descriptions of overhwlem and panic attacks.

The available docking space within Croaton’s port of entry was limited. The cybermatter construction, faded and dull with years of wear, was almost entirely overgrown by the harsh red hues of Croaton’s distinctive organic matter - leaving half the dock inaccessible by craft.

Within the space that was available battered old shuttles and cruisers crowded for space - already busted-up crafts crushed up against the rusted metals of their crude-fuel neighbours - loosely tether with erratic combinations of nylon cords and fibrous ropes; a thematic continuation of the blend between organic and inorganic that compromised this particular world.

Optimus, for his part, found himself pleasantly surprised by the wash of warm air that swept over his plating as he stepped carefully out of the craft - his peds making contact with the worn, mossy metal underfoot with a soft sound, not the usual sharp echo of metal on metal.

He craned his neck cables, looking curiously around and overhead at the towering structures of old-style Iaconian architecture starkly contrasted by trailing vines and plant matter that clung between their peaks - trees that grew atop the structures casted long, waving shadows across his faceplates as the wind blew through them.

Optimus moved forward, scanning the docks and ships around them, carefully stepping off to one side.

“Watch your step,” came the grating drawl of his flight companion from somewhere close behind him. “This dock is half likely to turn to dust.”

Somewhere along the contours of his faceplates, Optimus could feel a crackle of uneasy charge flicker beneath his mask - a prickly, distracted sensation centered in the grooves of the shallow scratches Megatron’s talons had left near his lips.

His spark warbled - an unsure sway in his spirit manifesting through the thrum in his chest.

Megatronus had always been a forceful character - someone who’s flair for the dramatic often outweighed his otherwise composed social-grace. So often Megatronus had made contact with members of his crowds, rallied those early incarnations of the Decepticon forces through the brotherly comradery of grasped pauldrons and seized servos.

Orion had often experienced such displays himself, way back when.

But Megatron had withdrawn himself greatly over the years, become greatly less impulsive. The Decepticon leader was no longer the charismatic poster-child astride a stage of young confidence, but instead a withdrawn, calculative elder entrenched in the paperwork and politics of an eons old war.  
So rarely did Optimus see Megatron encounter his troupes physically in any other manner than to bat them sorely away - even, or perhaps especially, these days.  
Megatron’s servos, once tucked behind Megatronus’ back to prevent mindless fiddling, seemed now constantly stowed away in a form of mindless isolation - contact neither offered, nor received.

And so while it was Megatron who had asked Optimus if he should be jealous of the scar Starscream gave him - some part of Optimus processor informed him that, quite sincerely, it was Optimus that guarded a much greater jealousy from the Decpeticons as a whole.

Megatron’s unprompted touch.

Optimus stepped aside and observed as Megatron lumbered weightily up beside him, coming shoulder to shoulder - but neither EM field touching.

Megatron was looking around with furrowed brow ridges, his optics scanning the quiet yard - his gaze flickering over distant mechs tripping drunkenly over each other through an alleyway nearby - but aside from that, the docks appeared void of activity.

“Starscream’s liaison should be here,” Megatron commented quietly, his voice a low rumble. He picked his way past Optimus with a cautious ghost of metal near metal, EM fields untouched,“Somewhere amongst this...squalor.”

“A mech of grey and silver plating - civilian class,” Optimus supplied, recalling Starscream’s description. “With a common auto-transport vehicle mode.”

A light-hearted chuckle echoed out over the docks.  
“Well, common is a true enough statement, though I’d like to say my wheels get the job done where it counts.”

Megatron and Optimus twisted, looking back towards their shared transport to see a shorter mech gazing back at them, leaned casually against the edge of the craft.

While the mech’s lower faceplates were exposed in a pleasant, honest smile, the upper half of the face was covered by a silver-blue visor - glinting as it reflected the light overhead.

The mech, though short, was stocky - with wide peds that balanced out wide shoulders - his colours a matte mix of dull whites and greys.  
He neither stood out, nor entirely blended in - perhaps the most ordinary mech Optimus had seen for quite some time, seemingly untouched by the scarring or modifications of war. It was almost jarring, in an odd way.

The mech pushed himself up and away from Wheeljack’s ship, moving towards them with quick, silent steps - that same easy smile on his face as he extended a servo.

“Rook. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Optimus felt the inviting brush of a pleasant, open EM field against his own, but stayed resolutely withdrawn even as he extended his own servo; taking that of the other mech’s.

“Thank you, Rook. Your aid in this matter is a debt which I hope to repay in kind.”

Rook smiled widely, a laugh rolling off his chassi with an ease that betrayed practiced charisma.  
“Ah, no need for that. Having the opportunity to meet a Prime in person is quite repayment enough.”

Optimus caught the slight shift of movement beneath Rook’s visor that indicated he was glancing away, and watched the smile change to something more curious.  
Rook leaned away from Optimus, peering around the bulk of the larger bot to address Megatron, his tone easy but laced with a well placed respect.

“And the great and undefeated champion of Kaon! My Primus- Am I allowed a handshake, sir, or should I bow to convey my respects? Inform me of which you prefer, as I am happy to accomodate.”

The grey servo slipped from Optimus grasp, and Optimus took the opportunity to recast his gaze, looking over his shoulder towards Megatron.

Optimus had rather expected to be met with indignance or perhaps disinterest; after all, so rarely did Megatron interact with neutrals or members of the public.

However, much to a start in Optimus’ spark, Megatron’s optics were alight with vested interest - his chest drawing in a large, deep vent as he considered Rook with pressed lip plates.

“A well considered question,” Megatron said, his tone thoughtful. He rolled his shoulders, cracking a few of the connections in his neck as his gaze continued to linger on the smaller mech, fiery and bright.  
“I am in no need of dishonest supplication, Rook. Nor am I so easily bated by the press.”

Rook’s surprised laugh quickly drew Optimus’ optics, and Optimus observed the mech carefully as his own low-toned vocalizer took on a note of genuine hesitation. “You are with the press?”

Rook’s smile was a constant feature, and as he addressed Optimus, he couldn’t help but feel a tad put-off by it. 

“Yes,” Rook said, “I’m afraid your companion has rather caught me out. Though please understand I have no intentions of deceiving you,” the mech took the briefest moment to lift the edge of his visor, allowing a set of bright silver optics to flash brilliantly up at Optimus as he continued speaking.  
“For this particular gathering I believe it would be for the best if everything was rather...off the books.” 

The visor fell down back into place with a light tink, and Rook folded his servos behind his back, stepping away with a thoughtful sway to his walk, beginning towards the overgrown buildings just off the edge of the dock.  
“I will say I’m surprised that the great warlord Megatron has heard of me! I had it on rather sturdy grounds that you are not a great deal invested in the press.”

“Actually,” Megatron said casually, his optics alight in Optimus’ peripheral, “It is in fact your work the precedes you.”

\--

The walk was longer than Megatron would have liked.

Usually, in the stretching vasts of the Cybertronian cityscape, Megatron was inclined to allow the soaring rush of his aerial form take him from destination to destination - even when Soundwave was available to bridge him, there was simply something more energizing in the high-powered roar of his engines cutting through the whistling wind. 

The earth shattering result of landing from the great heights at which he soared was especially satisfying.  
Though his knee twanged in protest at the thought.

But this was not the stretching vasts of Cybertron, nor even really anything reminiscent. Cramped and overgrown, with little room to navigate effectively while in his alt form, Croaton was foriegn and difficult to navigate.

While the towering structures of metal were indicative of Iaconian colonisation, (a concept that left a bitter taste on his curled glossia) the dilapidated city was lost amongst a swath of glaring red organic matter clinging to every crack and seam. The hues were blaring and obtrusive, while the endless rustling of plant matter was a constant white noise that was baring increasingly down on Megatron’s thin patience.

Rook - the reporter - was quite quick on his peds. So quick that Megatron hackles rose as the mech slipped out of view around a corner, weaving him and Optimus deeper and deeper into a seemingly endless network of alleys and passageways.

Encountering Rook as Starscream's liaison had been… An unforseen development. 

In the cycles since Soundwave had initially brought - that - article to his attention, Megatron had actually taken the time to read it in full; moreso out of a begrudging curiosity than any actual interest in Rook's opinions on Cybertron's future.

It was a well written piece, Megatron conceded that much, exploring a Cybertron first perspective born out of a not too uncommon (though ill placed) reverence for Cybertron's more ancient culture.

Prior to the induction of the senate and it's corrupt functionalist council, Prime's had seen a more lord-like role in Cybertron's political structure, overseeing individual matters topic by topic; a system that proved too inefficient as Cybertron continued to rocket forward in societal growth. 

In those times longs passed, at the right hand side of each Prime, stood their appointed Knight. The High Lord Protector. 

In some cases such a protector acted as the Prime's mate or close companion, but in others they acted as an advisor.  
Such an advisory role was what Rook had speculated - that as a cybertron entered a new golden age, Megatron would act as a sort of duelling intellect meant to counter or bolster Optimus as the situation called for it. 

Megatrons optics landed on Rook with a considering expression as the bot came back into view somewhere ahead of them, and wondered, idly, if Rook was aware how outlandishly bold such a concept actually was. 

He was actually rather impressed it had gotten published at all. 

After a few more kliks, just as Megatron was beginning to consider unsheathing his sword and forcing concrete coordinates from their guide, Rook stopped at a non-descript side-door embedded into the grimy wall of the dark walkway they were crammed into.

He grinned - that ever present, charismatic grin, and punched in a code.

“You’ll have to forgive the atmosphere,” Rook began cheerily, casting them an apologetic glance, “He’s a bit of a play-bot.”

Rook shoved the door open, and Megatron watched over Optimus’ shoulder as his irritating smile was consumed in a shock of bright flashing lights; and hissed static as his entire audio processing unit was very briefly blown out by the wave of crushing sound pouring out into the alleyway.

Club music - his fritzing processor supplied with the sudden sharp crack of a helmache. 

Extremely loud, thunderous club music.

With the sudden contrast of overwhelming sound within what had once been an eerily quiet space, it was little surprise when Optimus reeled back, his brightly coloured plating flared with alarm and caution - Megatron found that he could not make room to accommodate the intrusion in the cramped space in time.

Optimus's back-plates crashed against him - the weighty force of metal meeting the unyielding wall that was Megatron’s chest. Megatron’s servos caught Optimus by the arms, his strained weld creaking in protest as his internal gears locked into place to keep the Prime steady. As he pushed a ped back to gound them both, a spark of sharp pain shot through his knee, and he ground his dentae together.

The sharp flare of Prime’s EM field was almost tactile in its potency - a wash against his own of alarm and discomfort. It prickled over his chest, electrifying his spark in such a manner as to border or pleasant - addictive, even. Megatron would have perhaps had time to enjoy it - linger in the surprise and discomfort of his political opponent, when, while attempting to steady himself, Optimus’ smokestacks smacked him square in the face.

Megatron’s patience thinned a little more as his optics honed narrowly in on the offensive strut of silver metal.

His servos, still holding Optimus’ arms, moved upward - ghost the prime’s metal and settling on his shoulders, taking a firm grasp before shunting Optimus forward, shoving him towards the entrance Rook had already disappeared into.

Optimus raised one servo to catch himself on the alleyway - his audial fins, usually so stubbornly unmoving, were completely pinned back. It seemed the overwhelming sound had somewhat fritzed out Optimus’ audial processor too.

Megatron took a step forward, ignoring the pain in his leg and leaned into Optimus' audial, his tone snide but hushed.  
“Gather your wits, Prime. No matter what that reporter claims we are most definitely on book, maintain yourself for Primus sake.”

Optimus glanced over his shoulder, and their optics connected, their helms almost close enough to brush as they spoke quietly over the pouding music.  
“Earlier, in the dock, you said you were familiar with Rook’s work.” Optimus’ murmerred, apparently uninterested in acknowledging Megatron’s disapproval.  
“What do you know of him?”

“Soundwave knows more than I,” Megatron supplied dismissively, looking away towards the doorway that they had stopped just short of with a suspicious flick of his optics. “I cannot tell you all I know here. I will ask Soundwave to send what I have to your datapad, it will speed up the-”

“Ah - no. My apologies.”

Megatron’s optics snapped towards Optimus, his gaze narrowing with impatience as he took in the serious expression before him. 

Optimus' gaze was uncompromising, but his tone was apologetic.  
“I...have misplaced my data-pad for the time being. We will have to employ a different strategy.”

Megatron’s processor stalled.

And then it supplied him with incredulity, and very little else.

“What?” Megatron hissed, his Em field flickering impatiently. “Ratchet-”

Optimus glanced at him, questioningly.

“...Ratchet must surely have fitted you with a backup,” Megatron finished, straightening and pulling away, finally. His field slipped out of Optimus’ range, and he felt his spark strain with the effort of controlling his spluttering confusion.

Optimus turned expectantly to face him, and Megatron rumbled in displeasure at the pursuit. 

“I do not keep backups. It is an unfortunate situation.”

Megatron struggled to contain the outright frustration behind the light quirk of his brow ridge, and he tucked his hands behind his back - his jaw clenching, processor spinning.

They were losing too much time, standing around in the back alley like two mechlings sneaking into a club.

“Your comm frequency,” Megatron bit out, coming to an urgent conclusion. His optics met Optimus with displeasure. “Give me your comm frequency. I will pass on the knowledge privately, while we are inside.”

Optimus’ hesitation lasted for a single moment, before the resolute Prime-like demeanor that Megatron was intimately familiar with fell over the mech’s serious face plates.

Optimus nodded, once, and began to detail the frequency Megatron needed - his words low and quiet.

Megatron’s processor latched on with a rabid efficiency born out of long-term vested interest - cataloging the information into a priority list of callers, chief of which were Soundwave and Starscream.

Optimus, higher on the alphabetical list, sat right at the very top - and Megatron mused that perhaps such things were like fate. Often painfully predictable but woefully unavoided.

The krrzsht of white noise greeted his internal frequency briefly, before Megatron heard the click of a connecting line - and quite like that, he was officially in Optimus’ head.

It was much simpler than he’d once envisioned.

:We must hurry - I imagine we’ve taken far too long already.: Megatron commed, watching as Optimus’ audials flickered as the Prime adjusted to the intrusion.

There was a thoughtful hum in response, and the base of Optimus’ low vibrato vocalizer over the comms unit manifested as a buzzing sensation in his audials.

Megatron pushed past Optimus, the charge of their fields crackling against each other once more, and he made his way up to the doorway - the mechanics in his optics focussing and re-focusing to adjust to the glaring, flashing strobes emanating from within.

It was a sea of mechs within - metallic bodies of varying sizes jumping and dancing in a mosh of frenzied, free spirited movement. It was chaotic and erratic, difficult to visually parse and far too cramped for Megatron’s liking.

Most notably though, every optic that wandered over to examine the silhouette in the doorway, moved right on past - glazed over and blissfully bright with energy.  
Endless sets of pure white optics fritzed out and unseeing, lost to the night.

Engex, Megatron realised as the potent smell of chemicals and purge matter connected with his olfactory sensors and sent a seize through his systems - Starscream had mentioned how Swindle traded in the stuff.  
It was a vile substance, and now that he was aware of it he could see the glowing green rods of the stuff lined up along the back of the bar - a bioluminescent poison.

From across the sea of mechs, the very ordinary grey figure of Rook stood on top of a bar stool - one servo wrapped around a support strut and the other beckoning him over, his visor swimming with rainbow hues as it refracted the blaring lights.

He pressed the back of his servo to his lip plates, his tanks rolling with the unpleasant reminder of his emptied tanks the other night, and cycled his vents onto high - attempting to flush the smell from his systems. 

:Come,: he commed, his optics glaring through the strobes. :And as we walk I will catch you up.:

Megatron launched forward, diving, helm down and stride assured through the swarming bodies.

His body rebelled immediately at the impossible stench of engex, his senses assaulted by the harsh presence of hundreds of EM fields mingling in the cramped space - his vision growing strained in the nauseating flash of glaring lights. 

He felt his tanks burble as he surged through, his optics offlining by necessity as he shoved and shunted his way through the crowd - redirecting his processing power to simply completing the objective. He didn’t want to linger in this scene - he didn’t want to bask in the chaos.

:Rook is a reporter for a pre-war publication that’s, somehow, still functioning.: Megatron felt his ped catch on someone laying across the floor and forcefully kicked, sending the intrusion clattering in some unknown direction, freeing up the path before him.

:What do you know of Rook as a political ally?: Came Optimus strained reply, a rough edge to the transmitted words.

Plating of varying densities scratched and scuffed against his armor and, with a wide swing of his servo in an arc around him as he strode, Megatron was rough and unyielding in his pursuit forward. 

:He’s unaffiliated, that much you know. But of note to us is his audience’s interest in our current restructuring of Cybertron’s political network. He’s already published...speculations...and his audience appears rather-.:  
Megatron shoved aside a faceplate that his servo came into contact with a grunt that manifested both audibly and over the comm network.  
:-Invested.:

He felt servos on him as he moved - felt the scrape of eager, curios digits catch on his pauldrons that he was quick to shoulder bodily past. 

:So if we are to have a-: There was a grunt from Optimus. :Audience with Swindle while Rook is present, it stands to reason that what may come of this deal will reach the Cybertronian public…Is that correct?:

A particularly large and rough servo palmed greedily at Megatron’s thigh, catching at the edge of his pelvic plating and Megatron back-handed the servo with a shocked hiss, his EM field instinctively lashing out - attempting to shock or startle the mech that owned said servo away from him.  
Instead his field was swallowed by the surging crowd and he gasped at the intrusion, a thousand emotions pouring into his open field and overwhelming him - overtaking his processor like a black blanket of voices all crying out for his attention.

:Megatron?: The voice was garbled somewhere in the back of his helm, and he choked on his words - unable to determine if he was clicked onto the comms channel or speaking aloud. It didn’t matter, he couldn’t hear himself.

As the music swelled around him Megatron began powering up his canon - his breath was coming out heavy and ragged, his vents cycled so high he could hear the pitched wine overtop of the crowds that kept touching him everywhere they could.

And then, suddenly, Megatron felt something familiar, warm, and urgent push into the palm of his servo - and with a surge of his spark he clasped down onto it like a lifeline.

He felt the movement as his servo was lifted and dragged - pulling him through the swarm of mechs, guiding him even as he finally re-onlined his optics, the mechanisms cycling wildly and frantically before finally focussing in on the tall silver pipe of Optimus’ smoke stack - that familiar, stupid pipe. 

The warm grip on his servo was firm and uncompromising, whilst the lingering burning touches of curious mechs were swept away into the mass of the crowd.

Ahead of them, near the edge of the crowd, a rather panicked looking Rook shoved open a heavy metal door buried against the back of the room and hurriedly beconned them inside, and with the heavy footfalls of quick peds, Optimus pulled Megatron past the entrance and they tumbled into the backroom of the club.

They stumbled apart, and Megatron came to thudding kneel on the floor; vents cycling high as the door to the back room closed behind them, and the loud endless wall of noise vanished from the air as quickly as it had consumed them.

Optimus’ vents were a high wine in the now startling silence, and Megatron looked over at him with a crazed expression as he vented heavily, his chest shuddering as his systems puffed out the chemical stench lingering within them. His EM field fritzed with a lingering feral energy, his claws ripping the plush carpet underfoot as he buried his talons into it.

Megatron realised there was muffled speaking from the centre of the room, his processor taking a moment to re-tune his audials to the new sound levels. Megatron flicked his gaze ahead into the room - landing squarely on a bright purple mech lounging playfully on a large couch, arms wrapped around a set of twin Cybertronians - one mech, one femme - each wearing a panicked expression as they observed the two newcomers to the scene.

The purple mech’s grin was almost as big as the set of two bright purple optics - their inlaid screen design flickering to indicate the mech had blinked.

“Well, well, well looky here - aren’t I just the luckiest business-mech this side of the Auranian sun? By Primus spark when Rook said I’d thank him for this meeting I wasn’t entirely inclined to believe him until this very moment.”

The tone was enthusiastic, almost performative, like someone speaking to an audience by radio. He sounded, to Megatron at least, like some of the commentators that had narrated the events of the pits eons ago - commenting on the gladiator’s forms and predicting strategies and outcomes.

Megatron found his lip plates curling instinctively, and his dark gaze carried over right into the mech’s widening smile.

“You must be Swindle,” Optimus panted from beside him, his vents lowering in pitch as he spoke.

“One and the same! Though I must confess I have been known to take an alias or two. Ha ha!” Swindle’s laugh was as performative as the rest of his speech. “I do hope you can forgive me in advance! I find these things are bound to come up if I don’t address them sooner or later.”

Swindle snapped his digits, casually, and the mech and femme both scrambled up onto their peds within the instant - lingering only to receive their instructions.  
“Pour us some hide grade will you sweet sparks? We don’t want to be inhospitable to our guests~.”

Megatron vented heavily, his chest heaving with effort. He pried his talons out from the carpet before, with a hiss from somewhere in his hydraulics, he pushed himself up to stand.

Megatron towered over Swindle - even as Swindle sat spread out on the couch he could tell. Mech’s of his build - the build designed for public speaking and very little else - often either came tall and thin or short and squat.  
In this case, it seemed Swindle was sparked the latter - with wide components that made him look almost comically rectangular.

“I,” Megatron began with a hoarse rumble, slowly drawing his servos behind his back in an attempt to recompose himself. “Do not drink.”

Swindle’s disappointment was palpable, and the mech seemed to deflate dramatically into the couches.

“Oh but lord Megatron one does not visit Swindle’s Club without a little liquid courage! Though, now that I say it out loud, perhaps you wouldn’t need such a thing. Ha ha!” 

Swindle shuffled upright and grinned at Optimus as Optimus rose up onto his two peds with a soft grunt.  
“What about you Optimus Prime? Care for a little high grade? I know Prime’s don’t party but what’s a sip or two for the old travel-addled engine, eh?”

Megatron took the opportunity of Swindle’s brief distraction to look around the room.

The back room they were in was clearly the boss’s lounge - with a swath of white plush carpeting and a set of two gleaming poles affixed to a glossy red stage that took up the entirety of the back wall. 

The couch on which Swindle lounged was one of two large berth sized couches, one facing the stage and the other facing the doorway and - as Megatron twisted to observe the twins - the private bar.

“No, thank you,” He heard Prime say beside him. “I also do not drink.”

There was an incredulous splutter for a response . 

There was a serving station beside the door that led into the room - a private bar for this back room at which the two twin bots were standing, their servos frozen unsurely over the capped bottles in their servos, optics wide.  
Notably they were fitted in some of the thinnest civilian grade plating Megatron had ever seen.

Pleasure bots, he realised with a dull discomfort. He was surprised it took him more than a klik to recognise it - though it had been some time since he’d last encountered any.

Their features were smooth and undefined - with very few of the harsh edges or sharp ridges characteristic of customised plating. Instead they looked factory new - polished to a matte gleam with large portions of their silvery protomesh exposed on areas like their upper thighs and lower back.

It felt invasive to look at them, and so Megatron turned away.

“Do you like them?” 

Megatron didn’t care to meet Swindle’s optics upon asking such a question, and so Megatron merely clicked his glossia and observed the decorative art lining the walls instead. “We are not here to discuss such things.”

“You two sure are fun, huh?” Swindle asked dully as he leaned a heavy corner of his extremely square helm against his servo, casting fleeting and mournful glances between Optimus and Megatron. “Rook what about you, old friend? A drink?”

“Gladly,” Came Rook’s pleasant tone, and Megatron registered the sound of hurriedly poured liquids coming from behind him at the bar.

“Good, good~. At least some of us are going to have fun here, ha ha!”

Megatron felt the growl rising his throat but heard Optimus step forward before it could manifest itself.  
“Swindle. While I understand that you are presently partaking in your...personal downtime, I must ask if we can discuss rather urgent matters in private.”

Swindle was silent for a moment, a glass of bright blue energon in his servo registering for the first time in Megatron’s attention as he swirled it lazily in thought.

Rook’s silent figure entered Megatron’s peripheral as the mech walked past him towards Swindle’s couch, holding a tall party glass of deep blue liquid.

Swindle seemed to mull over the thought for less than a klik before grinning brightly, nodded as he concluded his brief and seemingly inane decision making process. 

“Power down those weapons ol’ pals and I’ll send the beauties outta here. Rook stays though, ha ha! Considering he's something of an,” Swindle kindly cheers his glass against Rook’s as Rook folded his legs politely up underneath him on the couch. “...Insurance policy.”

“The media?” Megatron bit out.

“A wonderful tool, it is!” Swindle replied. “Though of course please consider this conversation off the books, for the time being~.”

“Of course,” Optimus replied, his tone even. Megatron shot him a withering look.

Megatron heard a brief rush of loud party music wash through the connecting door as it opened, and both he and Optimus twisted to watch as the twins swiftly slipped away into the room beyond - the door slamming closed.

“Ah those two trouble-makers~...” Swindle sighed wistfully. “I’ve been meaning to have them replaced but Cybertron just doesn’t make a good frag drone like they used to - or really, at all anymore...dead planet and all. I heard the Decepticons kept a few though from the last line of production though - awfully rude not to share.”

:Megatron,: came the sudden, jarring presence of Optimus’ affronted voice in his head and Megatron had to bite back a hiss of displeasure at the intrusion. 

“I’d care to remind you,” Megatron said, pointedly ignoring Optimus beside him, “that a considerable part of the decepticon rhetoric was the abolishment of the coding used in the Cybertronian slave-trade, pleasure mechs key among them. I cannot speak for the…”  
Megatron’s optics brightened slightly as he gazed intently at the small mech, “stray fringe of my ex-decepticons, who denounced my cause through their actions.”

“Hm~...” Swindle said curiously, mulling over the words like one might a cube of energon. “Well - I suppose I had assumed such early campaign promises had little sticking power so many eons passed. Your integrity is commendable.” 

Megatron began to wonder if physical force was entirely off the table.

Swindle pressed the glass to his lips and threw his helm back, downing the liquid in one solid shot. He let out a ‘pah’ of pleasure as he swallowed the liquid, his grin, bright and carefree returning in full swing. Rook chuckled beside him.

“Now - Optimus, tell me,” his gaze snapped to optimus, bright and purple and intense. “Is it true that the refugee camps are already in full swing back on the good ol’ motherworld?”

Optimus, though seemingly rather taken aback, nodded - his gaze firm on Swindle. “Indeed. We’ve had the camps set up for a while now, though, as pertaining to the nature of this discussion, we are quickly reaching our capacity within the-”

“Ah well now hang on!” Swindle said, grinning. “No spoilers now - we’ll get to the meat of this discussion when we get to it!”

Swindle placed the glass on the edge of the couch, proceeding to fold one leg over the other and arrange his servos pensively overtop his knee strut with a keen expression.

“What I want to know is, is it true that you’ve placed a key Autobot faction member in charge of overseeing the rather overwhelming influx of refugees - Autobot, Neutral and Decepticon? Because, ha ha! I hate to say it but I gotta say Optimus that sounds like a wonderful origin point for a lot of good old fashioned favouritism~!”

Megatron could sense the tension come over Optimus. It had been an original point of contention in the initial stages of the peace talks, with both Knockout and Starscream offered as a Decepticon representative within the camps at varying points in the discussions.

However, as time progressed and areas requiring oversight were mapped out and planned for, both Starscream and Knockout were moved to different areas - Starscream into trade negotiations and Knockout acting as both medical and administrative staff within the Council.

Simply put, with the vehicons untrained beyond simple imported codes on menial labour, the key figures of the tentative peace treaty were simply spread too thin to have representatives present in every single area. It was an unfortunate truth, and one Megatron hoped to rectify going forward.

Optimus cleared his intakes. “While Ratchet is indeed loyal to me and to the autobot cause, Ratchet is first and foremost a medical officer. While I can only offer you my own testament to his character, I personally would like to assure you that Ratchet prioritises the medical care and rehabilitation of all mechs coming into the newly restored ports of Cybertron; not just those of the Autobots.”

Optimus glanced at Megatron, extending one servo to gesture in his direction.  
“Recently lord Megatron encountered some...medical difficulties - Ratchet was quick to administer aid, as he would for any decepticon or neutral.”

Megatron rumbled in his chest, and cast a displeased glance over at Optimus, catching the other’s earnest, serious gaze.

“It is…” Megatron began sourly, “...as Prime says.”

“Hm!” Swindle leaned back and considered them - his digits tapping thoughtfully against the square jut of his chin.  
“Well! I’m satisfied! You two, though a tad too serious, shall make for exceptionally interesting business partners - I can feel it in my protoform~!”

Swindle stood - clasping his servos together with a loud gleeful laugh.  
“So - Optimus Prime! Warlord Megatron...Please, give me the elevator pitch!”

\--

“The amount of resources you’re talkin’...phew.” Swindle dropped a crystalised ball of sweetened energon into his glass with a plink, shaking his helm as he made his way over the various implements at the bar.

They’d switched places. Megatron, keen to display himself as intimidatingly as possible, was laid out in a powerful position on the couch. His thighs spread wide and his arms draped along the back, his plating flared as he observed Swindle at the bar across from him.  
Optimus stood, rigid and serious to one side of the couch, his servos tucked behind his back as he observed the mech’s before him.

Optimus watched as Rook took a small portion of candied energon from a jar beside a towering pyramid stack of energon cubes - placing it into his mouth with an ease of mind that spoke volumes of Rook’s confidence in Swindle’s influence.

Optimus had met a few mechs like Swindle. There weren’t many that made it far without accommodating themselves to the ranks of a war unit, or hiding offworld undetected. It was rare to see a mech who’s whole business seemed built around being a personality - someone worth hearing because they’d tell you a story and spin a yarn.

It reminded Optimus of young Megatronus - though only superficially. 

Swindle lacked the nuance and subtlety that Megatronus’ low caste upbringing had taught him. Megatronus had worn confidence like armor, gleaming and bright and protective - but Swindle...Swindle reminded Optimus of the few occasional high ups he’d met while interacting with Agent Fowler back on earth. 

Optimus had always respected them out of necessity - honoured the culture that came with the planet whose patience he was borrowing - but in this moment, faced with Swindle, he was suddenly reminded of just how unpleasant those little men had been.

“The resources we need are intended to make New Iacon livable - the next largest step of the revival of Cybertron.” Optimus was ernest when he spoke, but his tone was grave in it’s seriousness - and it drew another long sigh from the trader before them.

“Indeed - and the credits are good, they really are,” Swindle turned, dropping another crystalised ball into his glass and swirling it - listening to the clinking that emanated from the sloshing, glowing mixture. His purple optics were trained on the glass.  
“But money...Optimus, Megatron, you must understand. Money is...well - fleeting.”

“Then what is it you want, Swindle?” Megatron asked darkly, drawing forward on the couch to brace his arms against the plating of his thighs; leaning towards the mech across from him. Optimus observed the action with an expressionless glance.

Swindle leaned backwards against the bar and ran his servo along a line of tall bottles, each containing a different bright liquid of varying shades of blue and green. His digit idled along the label of one particular bottle, and he grabbed it.

“See, here’s the thing. I was a decepticon once - long, long ago - and, for a brief minute, I considered giving the autobot thing a try. Didn’t stick!” Swindle poured a long, languid pour of bright green liquid into his drink - the colours mixing and swirling into a potent blend. His optics flicked up to meet the two leaders before him.  
“A lot of things don’t stick, you see.”

“Are you concerned that the rebuild of Cybertron is a...fleeting matter?” Optimus asked.

“In my defense, Optimus, you and Megatron have entertained numerous peace talks over the centuries of war that have ravaged our race’s intergalactic reputation~.” The words were cheery as he lifted the bottle away, cutting off the pour as the liquid threatened to spill over the lip of the glass.  
“I’m inclined to believe in the assurances of the familiar. I’m only a mech, after all.”

Megatron made an impatience huffing noise from his vents, and shifted forward to better meet Swindle’s gaze.  
“And in none of those discussions did I volunteer to share a building and crew with my greatest political rival! To trivialise the compromises necessary for us to even come here together before you to entertain the...unprofessional nature of this meeting is a glaring offense, trader.”

Swindle swallowed around a mouthful of high grade consideringly.  
“Don’t misunderstand me, I’m very interested in trading with you - both of you...but I suppose my question is, am I trading with Optimus Prime and Megatron, the mechs who might fall into a bundle of kicks and punches at any moment - or am I trading with the future kings of Cybertron?”  
Swindle licked his glossia over a drip of energon trailing down the side of his glass. He grinned, pressing the glass thoughtfully to his bottom lip plate. “That is what I wish to understand here.”

“At this point in time we are prioritising the people,” Optimus said, his tone firm as he ignored the frustration climbing his chassis. “Not the leadership.”

“We’ve established a temporary council,” Megatron said dryly, his unamused tone accompanied by the faint brush of a bitter EM field nearby Optimus’ own. “It is built of equal members Decepticon and Autobot and relies on the insight of team members from both sides.”

“A council…” Swindle mused. He glanced at Optimus, an inquisitive look in his optics. “A council that features...no neutral parties, then?”

“We have no neutral parties on the council at present no,” Optimus answered honestly. “Though it has recently come up in conversation as something we would like to pursue.”

“Indeed,” Megatron said, gruffly.

Swindle took a quick sip from his glass and made a thoughtful ‘mm’ sound before speaking.

“Alright now, see, that’s good..that’s something I’m very interested in. Because, now here’s the thing, Cybertron is made up of a lot of ordinary mechs. A lot of regular everyday mechs with everyday problems and everyday needs - neutral parties included.” Swindle ran a digit along the edge of the glass, consideringly.  
“But here’s the thing. It doesn’t matter, in the end, who you got on that there council of yours.”

Swindle rolled his servo, swirling the drink and continuing.

“As new mechs come pouring back in from off world you can make as many policies and rules and positive changes as you like but there’s one reality that I think you really gotta consider - all o’ those mechs are either going to only trust Prime, or not trust Prime at all - Megatron’s alliance aside.”

“Elaborate your point before I grow impatient of it,” Megatron said sharply, and Optimus cast a warning glance in his direction.

Swindle shrugged. “Either you believe in the wisdom of the Primes, or you don’t. Decepticon? Well that decepticon might not trust the wisdom of the Primes, so he’ll rely on Megatron’s input to make his decisions! What about an Autobot that doesn’t believe? Well don’t worry, he’ll still listen to Optimus regardless! Okay now how about a neutral…? Well he doesn’t trust the wisdom of the Primes, so he has no reason to trust Optimus, but he also doesn’t trust Megatron! Now we got an issue~...”

Swindle took a long drink from his glass, and Optimus took the moment to cast a glance at Megatron.

Megatron faced resolutely forward, his servos clasped and his plating tense and flared. His field was fiercely circling him in such a way that, if Optimus shifted too far in towards the edge of the couch, it would slice up against his own field with a sharp crackle of charge.

Optimus himself was growing tired of the debate - Swindle was seemingly capable of putting back countless glasses of high grade, while his own tanks rolled hungrily in the presence of the various candied goods Rook was sampling idly as they talked on and on.

Optimus, though remiss to say it, knew Swindle had a strong argument. Swindle, as a neutral, held a perspective entirely unique to either Megatron or Optimus and therefore was better equipped to speak on other Neutral's behalf than anyone currently present on their council. 

While Swindle was hardly a politician, he was a neutral party in a war that had lasted far too long - and now the progenitors of such a war stood before him seeking the business he had built on Cybertron’s grave.

Optimus spark thrummed - and he considered, though still standing firm, if perhaps it would be worth saving what little leverage they had and returning to base - reconvene, and discuss - establish a new plan, try again.

But Optimus knew that they didn't have that kind of time on their side - not even broadly. 

Quite suddenly, Optimus comm clicked on.  
:When I speak I will need you to play along - understand, Prime?:

The words were low and serious, lacking the usual harsh edge that Megatron often liked to inject. 

There was a pause in which Swindle pulled away from his drink with a satisfied sound and a gleeful expression, and Optimus took the chance to rest his servo on the edge of the couch - catching a brush of Megatron’s field.

Calculative. Calculative and pensive and stone-cold serious. No lordly arrogance or bitter taste, just forward momentum. 

:Understood.: Optimus commed back.

The moment the confirmation hit Megatron’s receptors, Megatron stood - an abrupt movement that had Swindle jolting in surprise and craning his neck upward to follow the warlord’s serious face. 

Megatron folded his arms behind his back and laced his servos together, his voice calm and even-toned

“Something that we have been hesitant to add to this conversation, due to it’s...confidential nature, now feels appropriate to mention. You see, Swindle, it is a tad unexpected but Optimus and I will not in fact be present at the council when the government is properly instituted.” 

Optimus blinked.

This...was not an accurate statement purely in that, while possible, such possibilities had never even been considered. 

Optimus maintained his composure and steadied his expression, even as he turned his helm to look in Megatron’s direction.

Optimus, in the blur of his peripheral, noticed Rook open a hatch on their inner arm and type something into it.

:Involve me in your plan, Megatron. What is the strategy?:

:I lack the context required to bring you up to speed - I swear when we get back I will get that infernal data-pad of yours back into your servos or I will strain a strut carrying us through this.:

Megatron continued to move within the space, confident and assured, beginning to pace languidly. 

“See, trader, the council is a table meant best to represent the people and, as is presumably quite clear, Optimus and I hardly make up the common-folk. Wouldn’t you say, Optimus?” 

Megatron gestured towards Optimus, turning and allowing their optics to meet across the floor - and Optimus took in the passionate, determined fire behind Megatron’s intense gaze.

Optimus held it.

:Will this assure us these resources, Megatron?:

The comm was immediate.  
:Yes:

Optimus held Megatron’s gaze for one moment longer, before slowly nodding, his voice low and considerate. “Our experiences have indeed isolated us from the common citizen.”

The intelligent shine behind the red aura burned with something new as Megatron’s expression shifted, just slightly, and Megatron turned towards Rook.

“As the public may already be aware, our current council has plans to institute a elected membership system, a vote given to the public for a voice meant to specialise in different aspects of the council’s responsibilities. Is that not true, representative of the press…?”

Rook, for the first time in a very long time, spoke up.  
“Yes, actually - the news travelled quickly.”

Rook glanced down at his wrist panel, moving a digit across the screen hidden within. “It was one of the first things officially decided in the peace treaty. Though I did not hear anything in regards to you and Optimus stepping down-”

“Ah, as expected of a reporter of your caliber, Rook,” Megatron cut him off - his voice honeyed with praise. “Then perhaps you have also caught wind of the news?"

Something in Rook's expression seemed to change - light up. A curious raise of his optical ridges cast a pensive, tension laiden silence between him and the rest of the room.  
Megatron smirked, just slightly. 

Megatron turned and set his gaze on Optimus, and Optimus heard the comm link crackle even as Megatron levelled him with a serious gaze.

:Come towards me.:

Optimus stepped forward and moved out from around the side of the couch, his movements slow but steady as he approached Megatron - the sounds of his peds softly moving against the plush carpet the only sound in the room.

Megatron reached for his servo and, in the strange performance being held between them, Optimus allowed it - the rough silvery talons enveloping his own.

For one, impossible second, everyone in the room went completely still as Megatron lowered his helm and, very gently, bumped Optimus Prime's knuckles against the crest of his helm. 

An act of reverence. 

Optimus vents stuttered.

Megatron gazed at Swindle from his submissive position, his optics bright and his expression serious.  
“The council will operate under a more ancient helm - more traditional more...familliar."

:Megatron-:

"One that will preside alongside the people's council...” 

:Megatron-!:

Megatron’s optics finally met his own, harsh and bright - that ancient intelligent fire that Optimus knew all too well.

“The wisdom of the Primes," Megatron said between tight dentae, his EM field bitter and determined. "And the guidance of his High Lord Protector.”


	9. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Megatron,” Optimus said, his voice tense but laced with something Megatron couldn’t quite read. Hesitance, perhaps.  
> “The Prime and High Lord Protector...This is a previously unexplored set of roles for two mechs at the head of a council to hold. The dynamic between them function in a very specific way - how do you-...” There was a pause in which Optimus shuddered a heavy vent. “Are you certain you understand it?”
> 
> Something in the phrasing caught Megatron’s interest enough to make him grunt. His tone was still rough with an angry edge as he replied: “We need not return to the old functions, only stand upon it as a platform that the people might recognise. It matters little how the title worked in eons past.” 
> 
> Megatron suddenly huffed a rough, humourless laugh.
> 
> “Are you truly so enraged with me that you would not even wish to see me as your Knight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how late this is, I moved house! 
> 
> I've been crazy busy but, now that I'm settled, I can get back into this fic with full force! I hope you like the chapter, I'll have more for you soon ^_^  
> (Psst, there might also be a ballroom scene in the near future 0w0)

Words came readily to Optimus Prime, he simply chose not to speak them.

Where Orion Pax had once spoken freely, Optimus was slow to words; considerate and careful as a Prime ought to be. 

The memory that was Orion Pax still lingered, of course, manifesting as the words Optimus didn’t say. The deep well of warmth and affection he held for the likes of his teammates, the anger and exhaustion that lived in the depths of his struts...things thought and felt, but never spoken.

Megatron had openly opposed the Matrix for reasons like this - for the way it changed him. Changed Orion. He learned this long ago.

Optimus had been holding a summit when he'd first realised it - eons ago - for a small collection of Cybertron’s by-then scattered upper class. It was a meeting meant to secure resources for the Autobot cause; funding. 

Optimus considered that perhaps such memories came to mind because of how similar it was to their current endeavour. 

The structure sheltering the summit assembly had withstood the first Decepticon strike - but not the second.  
In the end, it was just the two of them, heaving air through dented vents as the battle raged atop the rubble; the dust of crumbled concrete clouding the air around them in a heavy wash of greyish fog as the attendees were gunned down somewhere distantly beyond them.

“He wouldn’t have done this,” Megatron had spat - his optics blazing with contempt, his tone spitting acid. “He wouldn’t have stood and pontificated the long-forgotten scrawl of corrupted ancients to the inheritors of their prejudice.”

Optimus had gritted his dentae behind the mask - his vents choking and shuddering on smoke as howling cries echoed hauntingly atop the sharp whistle of jets soaring overhead.  
“You expect me to recall acquaintances and entertain debates with you while you slaughter innocent mechs? While you destroy what little of Cybertron remains? You are a fool Megatron!” 

Megatron had gritted his dentae - the sharp rows grinding sharply and letting off a bright spark that arched through the air and got lost somewhere amongst the rubble - catching a small puddle of Energon and lighting sharply into a plume of blue smoke that blazed with a similar intensity to Megatron’s fiery optics. 

“I was not referring to errant acquaintances, Optimus Prime. When I say he,” the canon charged, “I am referring to my brother!”

Such things Optimus had come to accept over the great lengths of time that spanned the war. At first, Optimus had been bitter - angry, even - to be confronted with such an...affronting notion.

But after years of private, quiet reflection, Optimus had grown to feel at peace on the matter. No matter Optimus’ wording, no matter the care he put into what it was he said, Megatron would always be opposed, as it wasn’t the words spoken...but rather the mech who spoke it that Megatron despised.  
The mech that had replaced Orion Pax.

Perhaps this was why, with the peace treaty behind them and his servo pressed gently to Megatron’s helm crest, an age-old bitterness curled a-new across the back of Optimus’ glossia.

Was this why Megatron had chosen such an unprecedented tactic? Was this performance this...dance, meant as an act of cruelty? A different kind of pain Megatron intended to inflict in the political realm when they could no longer exchange blows and swings in the physical...? 

This egotistical, publicly indulgent performance that Megatron could ever revere the title of the Primacy...was somehow dishonest in the most intimate of ways.

Optimus’ spark felt cold.

The reporter and Megatron were engaged in an animated discussion - the rapid tapping of digits over keys being the only thing that cut through the distant, fuzzy conversation and caught Optimus’ audials.

Megatron had been correct in that the media would leap on whatever they said - though the brazen speed at which they did was downright callous, at least from the perspective of maintaining the pretence of things being ‘off the books’. 

Optimus’ optics flickered up to Megatron’s helm and came to rest on his own stiff servo, the attachment feeling heavy and beginning to weigh on the taught cabling of his arm.

The ripple of static coursing through the points of contact between them was a constant, tangy thrum. Megatron’s own distaste was a bitter flavour on the edge of otherwise blazing confidence.

Megatron’s smooth silver digits were firm in their grasp on Optimus’ servo. Though not especially tight or painful, their presence (tainted by that constant ripple of distaste) made them feel foreign and unwelcome against his own.

Optimus’ optics slid to Megatron’s.  
Megatron’s gaze was fixed on Rook, his optics still bright and fiery in that way they always were when he was pursuing something. Whether they fought or bantered that fire burned bright - the roar of an engine too ambitious and too furious for any one mech to keep contained in their chassis.

For any mech less powerful than Megatron, such passion would have melted them from the inside out.

“I am exceedingly eager to see how such changes will affect Cybertron’s social climate in the years going forward,” Rook said with a broad grin, “I imagine such things will be either extremely difficult or exceedingly helpful towards the eventual amalgamation of factions.”

“Indeed,” Megatron rumbled thoughtfully - but Optimus caught the edge of hesitance on his vocalizer. A set of bright red optics flicked directly into his gaze, and Optimus realised with a tired vent that he’d allowed his EM field to brush into Megatron’s own - and that his intense displeasure must be distinct and palpable.

Megatron’s expression was difficult to read but the suspicion was there, and Optimus found his gaze hardening as Megatron’s optics lingered. The unspoken ‘don’t fuck this up for me’ crackled between them, and it tasted ruthlessly familiar.

Megatron’s digits shifted slightly, sending a sharp ripple of charge through the touching metals, before completely unfurling from around Optimus’ servo. 

Optimus was already turning and looking away as he pulled his servo back - the cold grip in his chest more prominent than the discharge of static on the tips of his digits as he left Megatron’s field. 

He could sense Megatron’s stare in his peripheral, and so he focussed instead on the eager look Rook was giving him, as well as the curious grin of the extremely invested Swindle.

Swindle was quick to lock onto Optimus’ discomfort, ever the observant businessmech, and gave a considering swirl of high-grade.  
“Optimus Prime - your partner here has made quite the declaration! Wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed,” Optimus said, his voice coming out harder than he’d meant it to.

He felt the comm-link click open and crackle, but Optimus did not care to wait long enough to hear what Megatron had to say.

“But not,” Optimus continued solemnly, “an inaccurate one.”

The comm crackled for a few more kliks, and then clicked closed.

\-- 

One joor and enough promised resources to furnish the entirety of Iacon later, Megatron was the first to step out into the overgrown alleyway.

The club had a back door, as it turned out - a side entrance connected from Swindle’s backroom through a series of maintenance hallways and back out into the grimy back streets of the overgrown Croaton.

The heavy door that leads them out into the alleyway creaked as Rook nodded respectfully at them, and apologised for being unable to accompany them back to the ship - something ‘urgent’ had popped up. 

Of course, it had. The biggest news story of Cybertron’s history had just broken.

The door creaked loudly before, with a solemn, final clunk, it latched shut.

Megatron’s optics lingered on the cool metals of the door, his field buzzing against the angry intrusion of Optimus’ own radiating fury from behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Optimus’ optics were blazing - a bright swirl of blue that shone intently above the lip of his battle mask. He was tense - plating taught and stiff as he vented. The metal of his hands groaned in complaint as the prime clenched one servo until it shook and then released it - ex-venting as he did so. 

Calming himself.

Megatron’s tone was bored, with an edge of regret.  
“It was our only option.”

Optimus clenched his servo again at that, and Megatron bared his dentae in displeasure - a growl rising from his chassis.  
“What did you wish me to do, Prime?” He turned fully and took a step towards Optimus, crowding in against his chest. 

“Did you want me to tell them the truth? That we have no assurances?”

Optimus’s field flared sharply, the whirs of his fans kicking in at full force to cool the rising anger.  
“Do you understand, even remotely, Megatron, what you have promised them? Promised Cybertron?”

It was a rare day that Optimus didn’t pause to carefully mull over his words but instead addressed him sharply, but Megatron was not of the mind to admire the rage.

Megatron’s servo swept out, gesturing. “I promised them homes!” He hissed, his gaze acidic as he pressed in closer against Optimus - their chests making contact with a metallic clang. “I promised them safety!”

“You’ve promised them nothing!” Optimus said, his voice rising in anger and - to Megatron’s surprise - pushed forward, battering his chest against Megatron’s and shunting the other mech back.

“You cannot possibly expect me, expect anyone, to imagine that you will follow through on this compromise.” His voice was taught and laced with angered static as he stared, furious up at the taller mech.  
“You are giving empty hope to an already desperate people - and you are a fool for doing so!”

Megatron reeled back, stepping away from Optimus and grinding his dentae in frustration. “Such resources are all we require - not Swindle’s respect!”

“It is not Swindle’s respect you should be concerned for, Megatron, but the people’s!”  
Optimus gestured broadly as he spoke, punctuating the words as his anger manifested. 

“You said yourself Megatron that today’s words will make it back to Cybertron. You cannot expect the media to give them hope such as this only to rip it away when you have gotten what it is you sought out. Such transparent motivations - such aggression-”

Optimus battle-mask snapped back and he glowered at Megatron, pressing one-pointed digit directly into the Decepticon symbol at the centre of Megatron’s chest.  
“-This is the attitude of the mech’s you overthrew.”

Rage ripped through Megatron’s spark and he let out a roar of anger - lunging forward and grasping Optimus by the pauldrons.

Optimus’ battle masked snapped back into place and he grabbed Megatron’s pauldrons in kind - the two war-builds locked together as their anger fritzed between their fields, their frames shuddering as they challenged the other’s strength.

“Do not dare to refer to me in the same light as the senate!” Megatron hissed, his vocalizer verging on the edge of static as his ped ground into the dirt and concrete beneath them - the scrape of metal loud and jarring in the otherwise quiet outdoors.

“Then prove me wrong!” Optimus countered, optics narrowed and blazing furiously. “Prove to me that you will not let the people of our nation falter under your callousness! Tell me why the people should trust you - trust us - after this performance!”

Megatron gritted his dentae, his motors seizing and groaning in time with Optimus’ own as the two pushed against each other to no particular conclusion.  
“Performance...such wording.” His optics flickered up and down Optimus face-plates, a flicker of something rich and addictive curling up his core. “Though Indeed it was a performance…”

He felt part of his armor dent as Optimus’ grip tightened with a sudden surge of strength, and Megatron grunted into the flash of pain. He tilted his talons inward and began to dig the sharp points into the metal of Optimus’ shoulder, causing the mech to rumble angrily.

“Swindle’s reasoning was not wrong, Prime,” Megatron gritted out. “The people hate to trust that which is unfamiliar. My mechs will never truly follow you, nor will your mechs follow me - and the neutrals care not for either…”

“Are you proposing your charade as an actual, plausible eventuality?” Optimus grunted, and Megatron could feel the uncertain flicker on the edge of his anger. The Prime glanced away, a shift. “Megatron I don’t believe you fully understand the depth of what you’re considering.”

“Do you imagine me a fool?” Megatron hissed, his own field lashing out sharply. “I am more than intimately aware of the egotistical ways of the Primes preceding you. Do not think for a moment I am considering offering myself as your lesser in any,” he gripped harder, denting a new portion of the metal, “ANY capacity.”

Optimus pulled back, his optics calculative and serious. He murmured the word “enough” and, with surprising unison, the two released their grips - the damaged metal pinging and groaning.

Megatron reached for his shoulder spikes and smoothed a rough servo over the denting, his joints aching in protest as Optimus levelled him with a serious expression, clutching around his own rivulets of energon. 

Megatron ‘tched’.

“Megatron,” Optimus said, his voice tense but laced with something Megatron couldn’t quite read. Hesitance, perhaps.  
“The Prime and High Lord Protector...This is a previously unexplored set of roles for two mechs at the head of a council to hold. The dynamic between them function in a very specific way - how do you-...” There was a pause in which Optimus shuddered a heavy vent. “Are you certain you understand it?”

Something in the phrasing caught Megatron’s interest enough to make him grunt. His tone was still rough with an angry edge as he replied: “We need not return to the old functions, only stand upon it as a platform that the people might recognise. It matters little how the title worked in eons past.” Megatron huffed a rough, humourless laugh.

“Are you truly so enraged with me that you would not even wish to see me as your Knight?”

Optimus seemed to halt on his words for a moment, his optics wide before suddenly there was the sharp sound of metal retracting, and his battle mask vanished once more.

Megatron immediately found his optics on the scar by the Prime’s lip plates - before pulling his gaze back up to take in the overall expression.

Hesitance - yes he had read that correctly. But there was something else - something…

Embarrassment.

“Megatron,” Optimus said, his deep vocalizer quiet, his brow ridges knitted and his optics serious. “...The High Lord Protector is a bonded role.”

Megatron’s processor stalled.

And then everything made infinitely more sense.

“-Unnecessary.” Megatron choked out, his vocaliser catching up a moment too late, warbled static corrupting the first part of the word. He straightened, flaring out his plating as he collected his thoughts - optics rushing to analyse the complexities in the Prime's cautious expression. “The role need only be used in the title alone.”

“Then another title,” Optimus said, immediately. 

Megatron’s optics narrowed, his frustration mounting suddenly. “The title is fine, Prime. It’s recognised perfectly well!”

“I will not disrespect the use of that title.”

His tone was firm and uncompromising - a tone that Megatron was achingly, furiously familiar with it.

“You don’t owe your little trinket this, nor it’s previous owners,” Megatron gritted out, gesturing vaguely to Optimus’ chest. “Dispense of such foolishness.”

Optimus looked away - his servo clenching once more with a groan of strained metal. “As a part of the Prime lineage, I cannot compromise on this.” His tone was firm but distant - perhaps even sorrowful, as though he was recalling something painful.

Megatron bared his dentae, uncaring. “Are you truly so stubborn?”

“Megatron, please, I possess the knowledge and memories of every previous Prime before me,” Optimus placed a hand on his own chest firmly, his gaze irritatingly firm and bright. “I cannot hold the knowledge I do and use that title in vain. To think I could, would be an egregious misjudgement of my character.”

“Fine you stubborn glitch” Megatron hissed, stepping in close to Optimus to level him with an acidic glare. “Then what do you want me to tell you? You've brought us to an impasse.”

“I don’t know,” Optimus replied honestly, his voice tight. He met the glare with careful consideration. “Though do not say it was I who dug us into this particular hole, Megatron.”

Megatron crowded in a little closer. “You agreed to it.”

“I did,” Optimus said, his tone resolute.

Megatron exvented loudly, his dentae scraping as he worked his jaw struts. They couldn’t back out now - not without careful planning. Not without an appropriate escape.

“I’ll need to consult Soundwave,” Megatron murmured. 

“And I Ultra Magnus…” Optimus rumbled.

“Then, for the meantime-”  
Megatron tilted his head back and met Prime’s serious stare with his own spiteful one, folding his arms. His EM field dripped with hatred and contempt as the Prime’s bled nothing but stubborn stoicism, their fields fritzing against the other.  
“Consider us engaged.”

**Author's Note:**

> No Beta we die like men


End file.
